


Oceans (between you and me)

by oh_so_loverly



Series: The Hazards of Love [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: (sort of), (up to a point), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Medical Trauma, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-70th Hunger Games, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Sadism, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Suicidal Thoughts, The Capitol, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_so_loverly/pseuds/oh_so_loverly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the world is in ruins, who are we to be whole?</p><p>In which, District Four is in recovery following a 'mild' hurricane, and its two most recent Victors struggle to not only recover themselves, but help provide revenue for reconstruction.</p><p>[Obviously, I do not own The Hunger Games, nor the characters in it. Continuation of Ghosts (I'm still in mourning)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_Dip, exhale; surface, inhale._

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Even mad girls need to come up for air sometime.

_Even if you don’t come up breathing, you’ll still come up with air in your lungs._

The image of corpses breaking surface, inflated, around her makes her stifle a scream. When hands move to block the sound, they ache and resist jerky motions. They mirror the pounding throbs of her head, slick hot liquid dripping down her right cheek.

_No, that’s not right. Is it?_

Head jerks to the right, eyes still sealed though lids protest, twitching against her will. Neck cracks and quirks. She barely suppresses a hiss of misery. She is weaving, bobbing between the underwater currents, and the cold slap of air.

Only, all of the water is gone.

She is swimming through shadows.

Breaking the surface means a reality of pain. Staying under means contending with her demons. The in-between, Annie’s pretty little paradise gets muddied up much too easily.

She can hear a shrieking in the distance, as she emerges from the clawing, lifeless hands inside of her mind. _They_ are screaming, but it is not words, when they open their fangs to show gaping black holes. The _swish-slice_ of flesh meeting metal resounds, instead, amplified in the semi- _(hah!)_ quiet of her mind.

 _Them?_ she muses before shadows scatter thought. _Is it me or them?_

She starts to stray back into their grasp. It should scare her, she knows, but there is something to the nest that her mind can be. Sometimes retreating feels like security. Accepting it is easy. Maybe she does not deserve anything except silence. Isolation.

The pain brings her back. Hands flex, the bones reply in turn, sharp stabbing rippling up her nerves.

A whimper. Then, not-so far-off sounds.

"Is anyone in there?"

 _I know you,_ she thinks, before shaking her head. _No, no, I know the memory, not the present. I'm just confused._

She does know that voice, though. Even silhouettes of nightmares past permit recognition. It is normally deep, and warm. Right now, terror rides it. A piggyback from hell, round and round her head. She cannot bring the face to the surface. But she knows that she knows.

(What she knows, she cannot quite say.)

A bubble lights in her diaphragm, but it hurts on the way up. What starts like a tickling laugh comes out as a silly bark.

_Arp, arp, arp!_

She pictures a girl with flippers for hands. She is a seal. Isn't that funny? Seals can't be Victors.

_Arp, arp, arp!_

The laughter persists.

_Arp, arp, arp!_

She is uncertain if it is from her, after a time.

_Arp, arp, arp!_

It is beginning to hurt in her sides and chest, so she assumes she must still be laughing. Her own hands are gripping, griping, against the pain sparking and spurring them to fits of spasming. She brings hands to her ears. Palms rub and rub the ringing orifices, to try and get the aching out.

 _Maybe the shadows will go, too,_ she muses.

It is no use. Tough luck, and really, it is a shame.

The shadows are circling. Whales to krill, are really sharks to blood.

 _Just like your mama,_ they snicker.

She can feel their hot breath in her ear. And it reminds her, _reminds her--_

She pushes it away. Their voices are less terrifying than some memories. Their words, though, can be downright bone-chilling.

_We’re coming for you, too._

Leer and sneer and mock. She ignores them, or tries. She is too tired to fight them. They feed off of the disorientation, block and hide and gnaw the images. They only let through the terrible thoughts. Happy memories, though more bright, face the gauntlet of acid-worn defenses that turn inward, turn to offense. Turn on her, until she is attacking herself. On good days, they only come out at night, the shadows.

But they are smart. They worm their way into the daytime, too.

_They get that from me._

It does not really bother her, though it likely should.

The vibrance peers at her, beckons her to make her way over yonder. As if through a cloud of smoke, a long, narrow, dangerous path keeps the happiness at a distance. The stairwell, just the first  _stair_  alone is daunting. She is only sometimes brave enough to make her way there.

_Am I, now?_

The pain is becoming more real, more acute. She is not going to the happy memories, no. She is going towards reality.

It hurts.

Reality is not usually so happy. No better or worse than the images in Annie’s head, she tends to think, but tricky. In reality, happiness remains far offshore. She wants to be there, though, because she can _feel_ more. She is not just soaked in fear. Smell more than blood and the chemicals of the dam’s freshwater. Sometimes it is a toss-up, between remaining here, in the shadows of her mind, or out there, where… the bad things _have are will,_ _happened happening happen._

She gives a start at a feeling of landing inside of herself. A sick feeling dulls in her stomach. It keeps out, however momentarily, the feelings of _slice, dice, bruise, batter._ Opened nicks to her skin balk in the cold air, and the exposure clenches teeth together until she thinks the molars are beginning to crack.

It is easier not to fight. Easier, just to go with the tides, the ebbs and flows of joy and fear and panic and calm.

No one ever promised that being a Victor would make a girl happy.

Breath is labored. Sea-green eyes sting against the onslaught of tears--

 _No,_ she thinks with a start. _They are not tears._

It is the dried salt lingering about, crusting her eyelids.

 _Is it real?_ she (thinks that she) asks it aloud. Who she is supposed to be asking, exactly, eludes her.

"Annie?" the voice is a shriek now, and lashes flutter and peel apart. A shaky hand travels up, to block the boiling sunlight heating, and stabbing through onto her face.

Hot breath against her ear.

_It’s real, it’s real, it’s--_

She wants to cry out, does a bit, actually. She hears through ringing ears muffled yelps and yowls and the soft, soft lull of the water lapping the sand.

The water should not sound so close. She could swear it is within her grasp, and when eyes peer down, she sees it is lapping the shattered, wounded planks of wood which have her trapped.

She cannot find the strength against the pain to move, but rolls her head, as best she can, to the left.

She would give a start, if not for exhaustion.

Bronze hair is bleeding dark red, tanned skin paling. The worst, though, is that there is a wooden plank pinning him to the wall behind him. No blood, none that she can see, but it is secure against his chest, and she cannot keep her eyes there long enough, to see if the chest is rising and falling.

She is whimpering before she can stop.

_Impaled._

_He’s impaled._

_He’s dead._

(Dead people aren’t very good friends.

Are we, Annie?)

A scream finds its way and before Annie can stop herself, she is struggling against aching, dizzy bones to clamor out of the haphazard lean-to.

“Is she in there?!” sounds again.

“I heard something!”

“Here, check here!”

_(“Get out of here!_

_Hide!_

_They’re coming!”_

_but the bushes don’t stop the blood,_

_just like pretty necks don’t stop katanas.)_

Annie thinks, for a moment, she may actually have lost her mind, because the man next to her looks dead and yet there is no one else in here to be making sounds. Eyes glancing, warily over, before quickly diverting.

Shake head, tap ears one tap, two tap, three tap.

He looks familiar, too.

(Hey, here’s a riddle: How does a dead man speak? In breathless tones.)

Laughter attacks, until tears fill her eyes. Hands are trying to find somewhere that will not shift and move and break and hurt her clawing fingers.

_groan, moan,_

“Annie!”,

_shift, twist,_

“Hold on, we’re coming!”,

_creak, thump,_

“Can you see her?”

With a burst of sunshine, patches of blue invade. Hands fly to eyes and breath quickens. Heart pounds because _don’t look, can’t look._

The light hurts too much.

There must be lots of people, she can hear muffled conversations and distant calls of names and numbers. Things that do not make sense.

“Annie!” it’s a mixture of relief and fear. A tug to wrist feeds warmth to cold, shuddering limbs.

Everything hurts.

When they tug her up, half-carry her out over the unsteady rubble, she winces and whimpers before tears are popping out intermittently, against her better judgement.

_I wasn't supposed to let them see me cry._

_“Ou se_ okay, kid,” the reassuring whisper comes against a background song filled with gasps and shouts. She is pulled into a tight embrace, and it would feel like choking, except her body feels numb to the restriction.

Choking doesn’t matter, though.

Isn’t that funny?

Strong arms, warm. Eyes stay locked on the ground, but she can see the skin of the arms are not so different from her own. It is disorienting, when she realizes the ground beneath their feet is moving. Sticky, dark brown mud _pops_ as her feet sink then are retrieved with each step from the gooey substance.

Annie is shaking. She cannot stop.

Mud, turns to small tidepools, turns to sand, sand, sand beneath her bare feet. Dislodged, the drier sand sticks to wet feet, while other particles hiss and whistle, kicked into oblivion. Grass weeds tickle at her feet, but her muscles are so sore in her legs, she would much rather collapse down in them.

Click, swoosh, and mumbling, _mumbling_. Hands are on her shoulders, nudge for her to sit down on a hard surface which sways under her weight. Knees and feet hang off of the edge.

The man says something Annie does not quite hear, before repeating it a second time, then a third.

“Annie,” finally cuts through the haze. That does not really do the girl much good.

_Annie. I am Annie._

Hands squeeze her shoulders, causing a retorting grimace. “It’s Daran.”

Tongue tastes like sandpaper.

_Daran._

“Can you hear me?”

A hand waves in front of her face. Annie flinches, shutting her eyes.

“I don’t think she can hear me,” Daran addresses someone to Annie’s right-hand side. “She’s in shock.”

“Clearly.” that someone retorts. Cool, indifferent. “She’ll get over it.”

_Clinical._

Eyes flicker, wander up to investigate the people ‘handling’ her.

_Clinical._

The woman who spoke wears a nurse’s jumpsuit. She wraps something around Annie’s elbow, before beginning to press along the bones of her forearm. The muscles are sore, achingly bitter in their reaction to the sensory touch.

_Clinical._

“Bo?” it’s the first name that comes to her mind. Voice is croaking, mind beginning to churn out images. She is saying more names before she knows it.

Aslin and Fabi and Manny and Graci and Evanse-

_Mags-_

And the body next to her had been-

“Finnick,” her mouth says it before her brain can stop her. “Dead.”

“No,” the man-- _Daran. Daran!-_ \- says. His hands remain on her shoulders. Shoulders are rattling and she wonders if he feels like he is starting a broken-down boat. It nearly makes her smile. “They took him straight to the hospital. Finnick was with you, Annie, we just got him out."

“Yes,” the mute nod and flatness of her own voice sounds distant. Far off, and fading as it goes. She wonders who is speaking with her voice. "He had a beam in his chest.”

Her own nod backs her up.

“He’s got a pulse,” Daran insists, firmly. “I promise you, Annie. He’s not dead, that beam got him pinned but it didn't go through him.”

This takes time to process. Her eyes slowly brave meeting Daran’s. There is a pity there, behind his eyes. It gnaws on Annie. He is looking at her, as if she is some wounded, pathetic thing.

Although, perhaps that is exactly what she is. If nothing else, she surely looks the role.

All of her clothing is ragged, and wretched. And salt stings her throat and burns her nostrils.

“He’s not dead,” Annie repeats.

Daran nods.

“Where’s… everyone?”

“They’re helping the rescue crews, or getting treated still,” Daran answers. He glances to the nurse, before leaning in and giving Annie a tentative hug. “I’m gonna get Bo. Okay?”

“Okay,” Annie manages with a more even tone than ought to be possible.

Daran has not waited for Annie’s response. Her former mentor never was one for _feelings_. Though he has always been kind, to Annie.

A smile quirks her face, before being distracted, and discarded with the changing breeze. A sharp breath shoves the momentary relief down her throat. Finnick is not dead. And Daran is getting Bo.

 _Two down._ Just like the games, only they don’t get the death-toll, or their faces in the sky.

The nurse is gripping at the bones in Annie’s hand, flexing them and causing her to let out a gripe of pain. Eyes water, and Annie has to purse her lips, to keep from saying or doing anything.

In the hospital, after the got her out, she kept trying to flee. The Capitol Doctors were not very sympathetic. Nor were the nurses.

Annie really does not like either of the two species.

_Not after-_

“Annie!”

The new voice behind the cry causes her head to jerk in the direction of the sound, before she winces. The hand free of the nurse’s inspection touches her own neck gingerly as she looks, more restrained, for the source of the voice.

Bo. The lighter strawberry-blonde head of hair, the more tanned skin of Annie’s brother comes into her nigh-weepy vision. Before she knows it, she is pulled into a tight, desperate, one-armed hug. It hurts, and she cannot resist a hiss responding.

 _“Di ou mèsi,”_ he is mumbling, hot breath against her hair feeling incredibly out of place. _“Di ou mèsi, ap_ okay-”

“Bo,” Annie manages back.

His other arm is not in a sling, as it had been the last time Annie saw him. Still, the injured arm hangs limp at his side. Annie wants to ask if he is okay, himself, only the question sticks on the roof of her mouth. She may not like the answer.

Her throat feels too tight, and the fog that heats the tears in her eyes is keeping everything at a distance. Her hand reaches out, finds her brother’s injured arm, and the hand belonging to the arm interlaces with her own.

“Excuse us,” the nurse cuts in, sharply. “I haven’t finished my examination of her injuries.”

“I’m fine-”

“I’ll judge that, Miss Cresta.”

There is a condescension to the tone.

"But, I'm-"

The nurse stops Annie with a disciplinary glare that looks more like caged fury.

Annie’s shoulders hunch up, and she looks at the ground. Bo relinquishes his hold. While Annie misses the warmth of her brother’s arms, she has to admit, he had been holding her awfully tight. Her chest and shoulders, and aching arms, hardly appreciated the gesture. Everything is shuddering with each inhale and exhale, now. The sweat down her back and sheening across her forehead is cooling, making her shiver further.

The nurse tugs Annie’s head upwards by the chin, and she tries not to sink back into a black hole at the triggering touch. Holding a small, metallic pen in front of Annie's face, the nurse orders to follow the object with her eyes. Annie does the best she can, but there is a peculiar sense of failure at the nurse’s conclusory huff.

The woman steps away, producing a tablet and beginning to type things rapidly onto it.

Annie blinks away the mist of tears, and begins to allow eyes to take in the scene around her. There are emergency crews, not just in the immediate vicinity, but all over. Even the local Peacekeepers are assisting the crews, wounded sitting similar to Annie, on metal bedframes of the back’s of medical vans from District Four’s hospital. The buildings in the distance, in Town, and even the Canneries, seem battered, but mostly together.

It is a beautiful, bright, sunny blue sky. Not a cloud in site. The gentle laps of the waves try, just like the sky, to seem to _apologize_ for the wrath they had shown.

 _Mama Lanati,_ Papa would say, after winter storms or hurricanes. _She’s a tricky one._

Considering the jumbled memories, it is not actually as horrible as one would expect.

With one exception: they are currently in an inland, sandy area. The embankment abuts Shelling Shacks, then marshy bogs before solidifying enough to border the railroad line. 

Clear across cool, calm waters of the inlet, Annie can see the back of Victor’s Village. Not four feet from where she currently is seated, on the propped-down back of a medical emergency van, is the wreckage from which she and Finnick-- not the dead boy, silly, they say he isn’t dead-- had emerged. From what Annie can see, where her house's backyard ought to be across the creek, is actually a flattened pile of wood and stone.

Her brow immediately knits, and she looks up, searching her brother.

“How’d we get…?” Annie feels a panic building, and she lets it build, because there is little more that she can, in fact do, to stop it. “Bo, we were at the house.”

Bo nods, placing a hand on his sister’s back and taking a deep breath. Even being twenty-four, he does not look much older than Annie feels. He looks just as shaky as she feels.

_(Looks like a child, to be exact._

_And, though being a child may mean many things,_

_it certainly doesn’t mean you feel equipped to deal with loss.)_

“Bo?!” the anxiety must carry on her voice, the fear and the strain, and the panic, because he shushes her, rubs her back gently.

“There was a surge,” Bo clears his throat. “They thought… they watched you get washed away. Az was--”

_Aslin Sibb._

_Bo’s fiyanse._

_My sissy._

_My sissy couldn’t get to me. We got separated._

_And Finnick-_

Annie’s mind churns up screaming. Terrified sounds of her friends trying to keep each other safe inside of her Victor’s Village home; clinging to one another. Finnick throwing himself over her, covering her, protecting her. Glass shattering, wind screaming, pressure deafening everything and everyone. And then, getting separated.

_The sound of a metal pole cutting clean through the side of the house._

_The sound as the roof had been ripped off and pressure sucked the house in on itself._

_The break of Finnick’s voice, howling against the whirling wind as the swell crushed through the house, and suddenly they were washed out, too. A flow filled with nails and projectiles and thick beams of mahogany._

_And the water--_

She was trying to keep him above the water.

Her arms weren’t quite as strong as he needed her to be.

“You’re okay,” Bo whispers. An arm is around her shoulder. “You’re okay, everyone’s okay.”

Annie reaches up to feel hot tears are boldly flying down her cheeks, like naughty teenagers fly into the fish-lodged waters of Pesca’s farm-pools.

“You just had a fright-”

“I drowned, again,” her voice frays and she shaking beyond what she had. “Bo, I’m dead.”

The nurse is eyeing her, but it does not matter. Everything is narrow, shrinking. They both are growing farther, and farther away. A laugh starts to bubble but she thinks she might be crying but whatever it is, it hurts. She starts rocking, nodding her head and she cannot stop once she has started.

“Drowned, I’m… not real-”

“You didn’t drown.” Bo’s grip on her tightens. “None of you drowned, Annie.”

It is too quick, to Annie’s mind, and she whimpers, because if he is honest, why does he speak so quickly, like a lie? That is how liars speak, not loving, big brothers telling the truth.

“I’m a fish in a net.”

Her head starts swirling, and she is rocking back and forth, trying to find a center of balance. The more she rocks, the more it hurts. She thinks she hears things, but her hands cover her ears _(one_ tap, _two_ tap, _three)_ and her lids shield her eyes before any of it can penetrate.

The sting that she feels in the back of her neck feels painfully pleasant. A tickle tingles down her stomach, makes her tighten, though she does not understand why.

“She needs to be admitted,” the cold nurse's words drifts down into the slowly numbing darkness which has begun to take over.

Annie lets it take over her. She does not have the strength to keep fighting, forever. She is much too tired for fighting. She just wants everyone to be all right. Noise gets through the muffling, initially. The distance intensifies, until all that is left is a blurred silence.

_Dip, exhale; surface, inhale._

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Mags always says that sleep is good for the soul. Or was that soup?


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking it easy, isn't very easy.
> 
> (Who ever said taking a trip was a mutual decision?)

“Hey, _andormi,”_ Aslin sounds exhausted. A weight presses against the mattress, next to Annie, and the added weight causes the bed to groan. Sissy’s fingers are gingerly running through ratty, matted red strands.

“Hi,” Annie’s head aches as she turns towards the figure sitting next to her. Still half-sleep, she feels a forced smile stretch her cheeks to their present limit. There is a wide, expansive and painful bruise on the left side of her face, one that has grown a deeper purpley-black than she knows what to do with. It meets the white bandages just to the left of her left temple.

Aslin avoids this carefully, pulling a comb out of her pocket. Annie sits up, gritting her teeth as she does so. Arms are slightly shaky, but she musters sheer force of will to maintain an upright position.

The nurses, back when they have not been overwhelmed with patients, had once upon a time taken to their charges with (distanced) attentiveness. At least, they had done as much when Annie had to be admitted at the age of six. But then, they had also chipped in and bought her Rolly the stuffed Dolphin, and even at six, she had realized she was getting special treatment. That all had changed, over the years. Those kind nurses must have gotten transferred. Each nurse who has popped in and out to check on the patients here in 04-091892, as the room is designated, have been about as kind and warm as pack-ice. Annie wonders what became of her favorites, the ones who sang her to sleep when she cried in the middle of the night, until the other kids in her room complained.

 _Something with an 'A,'_ she recalls. The name had been something with a letter 'A,' or at least that's the best she could remember. She had a soft face, could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen, herself.

"Annie?" Aslin rubs her (almost) sister-in-law's back gently. "You're drifting, Sissy."

 _"Padon,"_ Annie mumbles. She trusts her a right arm enough to push all of her weight onto it, rubbing her eyes with her left hand. _"Panse."_

Aslin nods, focusing her energies on a small patch of Annie's hair at the base of her skull. "Have they said anything, about the release date?" 

Annie goes to shake her head, before thinking better of it. "No, _pa ankò."_

"Huh." Aslin's jaw clenches, and Annie knows there is something the former is not saying.

It is too exhausting, though, and too stressful, to wonder why the nurses and doctor will not just say,  _Annie Cresta is concussed!,_ and get on with it. Surely, they have other patients here with more pressing injuries. She cannot go back to her own house, of course; but at the least, the old Cresta flat back in Pesca is still technically up for grabs. It would feel much better to be in a  _home_ than a hospital.

The home does not even have to be her own, honestly. It just has to _not:_  a) _smell like bleach-lined cleaner,_ b) _reek of vomit,_ or, c) _have a PA system speaker just above her bed._ That aside, Annie would be fine with sleeping on the beach, if it meant Bo and Aslin were nearby.

Bo says it really is not that bad, the damage in the rest of the District. Although, one of the more recently admitted patients contributed that, _'it's not bad, as long as you don't mind the dead fish washing ashore.'_ Sickness lurches Annie's stomach and she pulls her knees up, playing with the crisp, white hospital blanket. She could practically smell the rotting carcasses and _the bloating as they float up, bobbing--_

_Other thoughts, Annie._ _Distract yourself._

It had cost Papa a lot, to have her in hospital, back then. They had not had a choice, just like now. At least now, it is her own purse, and she is not having to fret about Bo and Papa working overtime. It makes her feel somewhat better, that the local grain delivery apparently took place while Annie was still sedated, last week. She can at least feel like she has gotten something for her District, other than mortification. Though, she supposes, they have bigger fish to fry than a silly little Mad Girl. Quite a few houses in Town, and Waterside were severely flooded. Half of the south Cannery Tower had been blown in, and the Granary had lost its roof. The belltower would need major repair, and the tracks in and out of Four had apparently become a mess when the winds got to the inland trees. The air pressure had been worse, to an extent, than anything else the Hurricane brought about. Aslin said, though, that the Cresta house was the worse damaged in Victor's Village.

The only one that got completely washed away, somehow.

Annie closes her eyes, humming the mermaid and sailor song under her breath.

She should not have been so anxious, as a child, she knows now. It was unusual, for children to be that way, but then, that is what happens when you grow up hearing about _No! those sweets are far too expensive!,_  and _how many nets you need to sell, before you can buy decent cooking oil again._ Annie was always a nervous child. Losing Mama did not help. Being dehydrated, and so confused-  _and the sharks the sharks the sharks that no one beat away from her for a time_ \- she had terrible fears about Thirteen, _because of the people with the sweets,_ and it got made worse that that was the registered number for the childrens' ward, here. The local healers, back in Pesca, could not do help with a six-year-old who not only had survived a Peacekeeper rifle assault on her and Mama’s rowboat, but had further been in saltwater and wreckage surrounded by sharks.

She had to be in the hospital, then, too, and just like now, Annie's injuries apparently needed 'monitoring.' Some things never seem to change.

Her laughing fits, which turned hysterically into sobs during her first exam, hardly helped the case that she was fit to leave, now.

Perhaps staying afloat should be her Victor’s Talent.

 _It’s gotten me this far,_ Annie muses. Her lips press together as Aslin battles against the knots in her hair. The knot tugs the hair against a still-raw hairline. Annie's face contorts, though she keeps quiet. It does not matter, for Aslin notices her face, anyway.

"Oh!" Aslin stops, immediately, gently rubbing the skin that had been pulled upon.

"S'okay," Annie swallows heavily, taking a deep breath. Aslin raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. _"Li nan amann,_ Sissy."

"Yeah?" Aslin's tone is dubious.

 _"Anvan yo vin pi mal._ I don't think I'd like to be bed-head girl."

Aslin sighs, but returns to combing as gently as can be. Annie’s eyes slip shut, trying to keep out the sounds of her roommates' machines and  _the puff-puff-puffing of the ventilator hooked into that one older woman's neck._ Annie reumes humming, dried-out, tired fingers tugging with listless strength to fold the blanket corners into tinier and tinier triangles.

It hurts.

_I should probably stop._

She does not.

 

Annie’s wrists are both wrapped, the left with simple gauze, the right with a tight air-cast. Her arms have bruising, some purple and others yellow. They have been poking and prodding. They converse outside the door of her overcrowded room, but anytime Aslin asks, or even Bo, they give blank stares and inform them that, _'The floor doctor will discuss Miss Cresta's condition with **her** once the results are more conclusive.' _ Bo and Aslin have not stopped asking, though, and Annie is grateful, because it means she does not have to be the only annoying Cresta in District Four.

She is part pincushion, by now, and she is beginning to wonder whether the results ever will be conclusive. She is not even certain what it is that they think is wrong with her.

Bo pops his head through the door, checking whether the other patients are awake before saying his hellos and heading over to sit next to Aslin. Aslin has just finished making a loose, fishtail plaiting out of Annie's out-of-control strands, tying it off and smiling, satisfied. Bo greets his _fiyanse_ with a kiss, giving Annie a careful hug.

_"Nenpòt nouvèl sou-?"_

"Nope," Aslin cuts him off, eyes narrowing as a call for room 04-091822 came in. She huffs, shaking her head. She turns to Annie, about to say something when the floor doctor comes in, spectacles at the tip of her nose, and a gaggle nurses at her heels.

The nurses immediately begin closing off Annie's bed's partitions, smooth, smoked glass forming barriers on the left and right. The main doctor simply stares down at a tablet in her hands, at the foot of Annie's bed.

Doctor Zuccero, her name is, and she is the one typically heading up the convening groups outside of Annie's room, looking over _The Mad Cresta girl's_ charts. Grey hair is pulled back into a tight bun at the very top of her skull, while her dark skin pales the starch white of her doctor's jumpsuit in a peculiar way. Brown eyes snap from Aslin, to Bo. She makes a dismissive gesture to the couple, before tapping something in on her tablet. When Bo and Aslin, with defiance set in their expressions, refuse to leave, the doctor's brown eyes narrow ever-so-slightly.

"Out," Zuccero says flatly.

"We're her family," Aslin retorts. "Whatever you need to say-"

"You don't have permission to be here."

Aslin huffs, but nonetheless stands, heading towards the door. The nurses have left about a foot of space where the partitions ought to fully close, and Aslin leaves the room. About six nurses, female and male both, loom around Annie's bed, and she begins to feel everything closing in on her. Her hand finds Bo's, and she is grateful for the reassuring smile he gives her. Until Doctor Zuccero raises a brow at Bo, as well.

"He's my brother," Annie answers, shoulders raising as if this will help her.

She gulps when the doctor's intent glare lands on herself. Everything is beginning to close in, and instinctively, she picks a spot _a spot _a spot__ _a spot_ on the blanket, tries to count the fibers she can make out. Her ears feel as if silence is pounding inside of them, but she knows it is just the rush of her own blood, the nervousness, the fear.

"He's..." she struggles to sound more assured. "My _brother."_

"He doesn't have permission to be here, either."

"Excuse me?!" Bo snaps, voice louder, more furious than is typical.

"I said," Doctor Zuccero repeats, exaggeratedly slow. _"You_ do _not_ have _permission_ to _be_ in _here."_

"I'm her brother, for-"

"You are not her guardian."

"What?!" the tension strains his voice, and his hand collects into fists. 

 _I'm my own guardian, now,_  Annie gulps.

"Bo," Annie whispers, daring a glance up from his fists to his face. She reaches out, giving his lower arm a squeeze. "It's okay."

Bo shakes his head, visibly angry.

"Not her guardian," he scoffs, giving the Doctor a disgusted look. He turns back to Annie, giving her a light hug. _"Nou ap jis ale nan sal la ap tann, mwen te pwomèt. Nou pa pral ale lwen."_

Annie nods. "I'll be okay."

He gives her shoulder a(n unintentionally painful) departing squeeze, before squeezing past the surrounding nurses and exiting the partition. One the glass snaps shut, there is a sudden jump in movement, and Annie instinctively begins to curl around herself. One IV is slipped out of her arm, while another slides into her neck and a gentle  _tap-tap-tap_ on the screen accompanies each motion. Annie forces herself to look at the doctor, who observes the movements of the nurses about them with clinical interest.

_Clinical._

A panic begins to stir, and though Annie tries to ignore the tickling, it sets breath to a hard rhythm to follow,  _so that tut-tut-tut becomes gasp-exhale-gasp_ and the machines are flipped and twitched, and before she knows it hands are tugging her out from the bed, setting her in a chair with wheels.

"Where are we going?" because this is what happened when they took her for the scans, but the chair has restrains and they snap one to her right wrist. Annie starts immediately, looking around at the nurses. But they aren't looking at her, they're looking at their machines and their tablets, and each other, and one laughs. They open the partitions, and begin wheeling her down the hall. She thinks she might be repeating herself, but perhaps she does not; because none of the nurses so much as glance at her.

The waiting room was to the left.

They are headed to the right.

Annie would strain her head, to look over her shoulder, but she cannot, and the chances of Aslin or Bo seeing them is slim to none. Breaths are becoming sharp, focus becoming far less steady with each second that ticks by in uncertainty.

They stop at the elevators, pressing and waiting at the metal doors. Annie looks up, searching for even one nurse who will make eye contact. They do not. They wheel her in, once an elevator car arrives, and the gaggle gathers and fills the space as if it is a social gathering. Rather than heading to the lower floors, for the MRIs or other scanners, instead, they press the up button. Not just the up button, no; they press for the rooftop.

"Why are we going to the roof?" she thinks she asks, but her lips feel numb, and she wonders if she hasn't moved them at all.

Annie starts to feel herself shrinking, shrinking, the shadows that  _have been all so beautifully absent_ today are beginning to sneak up on her, and the room begins to go in and out of focus. The panic makes hands grip the arms of the chair as they are whirled up. 

"Where are we going?" she thinks she repeats, and there is a poke in her wrist before something cold wraps around it; whatever it is, it is scanned against the doctor's tablet. Breath feels cold in her lungs and her throat is constricting, tears forming in her eyes.

"Your guardian is having you transported."

Annie's eyes snap up. "What?"

The doctor raises a brow, no other signals of surprise emanating from her.

"You're being transported to a hospital in the Capitol."

The shaking begins immediately, that cold grip of dread slowly scraping down her spine.

The elevator doors open, the beautiful blue skies and bright yellow sun bursting against the seams of the doors as if some sort of celebration is in order. What stands on the roof makes everything more distant, all the shadows affix themselves in her chest, like weights and measures and blackness and fear curl her left hand over her left ear, _body trying to disappear into oblivion--_

On top of the roof, there is a hovercraft transport.

The doors sit wide-opened, a glowing black sleek metal monster, waiting to swallow Annie whole.

 

* * *

 

 

"Who's going t-? Someone has to tell my br--?" Annie gulps, trying to catch the attention of each of the nurses as they pass. Most of them are dressed differently from those in District Four; they are in white, still, but have long labcoats, and the Capitol insignia upon the breast pocket.

 _They're all the same,_ Annie thinks to herself.  _They're all ignoring me._

The wheelchair has been parked in the rear of the craft. They put some bar across the chair, mechanically adjusting it, tightening it until the chair is taught with the walls. Annie's arms are pinned in her lap, under the weight of the metal across her chest. A male nurse pauses, j ust as the engine starts up with that haunting  _shriek-shriek-shriek,_ checking that the machines hooked up to Annie's vital signs are still in place. She can feel the tears in her eyes, and cannot help the shaking that mimics that of the hovercraft as its systems begin to rev. 

"Please, could you tell my brother where I'm--?"

A male nurse turns, makes a signal to another nurse. On cue, the other puts an oxygen mask over Annie's lips, tightening it to the point of discomfort. The male nurse pats Annie's head, like she is a shaking puppy, before walking away. Sickness is brewing and stirring, and the shadows are clawing at her.

_Told you we were coming for you._

But the doors to the hovercraft have not closed yet. Annie glances, hopefully, and is surprise to see another chair being pushed up the hovercraft ramp.

Only the eyes of that patient seem completely unaware. Bright green eyes seem more dull, and typically bronzed skin looks more pale.

_Finnick?_

Beat up, with one arm and one leg in casts, he appears about ten times worse than Annie has even begun to feel. His chair is hooked up, similarly, across from Annie, and after the nurse is done doing so, he leans his head back, eyes sliding shut, but not without giving the nurse a subtle, half-hearted smirk. They place a mask across his mouth and nose, too. But unlike Annie, whatever is in his seems to knock him out. The male nurse who placed an oxygen mask on Annie now straps himself into one of the seats, and each of the Capitol-pressed nurses follows suit, as the doors to the craft slowly slide shut.

Darkness does not fill the hold where they are, but as the craft shakes, gravity tugging and beeping and warning signals honk-honk-honking as they make their ascent, Annie squeezes her eyes shut, and lets everything disappear.

_(She forces herself not to wonder who the 'guardian' is who wants her in the Capitol.)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouthankyou for reading! I hope there aren't too many errors here/ that it's not disappointing... if anything is amiss let me know! as always, I lovelovelove feedback, please let me know what you think! ;D (and I promise there will be a point to this, just bear with meeeee~) <3


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I am invisible, Annie thinks, because she thinks she is asking questions, but no one even looks her way. Or, maybe, just my words are.
> 
> (Or, Annie tries to help because everyone needs to play their part, right?)  
> [this one is a bit longer-ish!]

_"Shock treatment?"_

The voices sound far, far away. Everything is white against gray, gray against white, blurring and moving faster than her eyes can comprehend.

_"It was unsuccessful last time."_

_"They hadn't tried redirection. When used for an extended period-"_

_"We can't push too far, we haven't got the time. We'll use the medical routine as before."_

_"Are you certain?"_

_"Yes._ _We can't continue to waste resources this way."_

_"Why bring her here, then?"_

Eyes try to find a stilling space, a space where the voice lives with the figure it belongs to, but sea-green are blinking and batting against an onslaught of shoots and slides.

Strange thoughts flit in and out. _A weak body doesn't do much good trying to churn butter from air._

Hah! What does that even mean?

_"Her guardian insisted."_

_"Is he sure?"_

_"Positive."_

Things are fading to whispers and white becomes grey becomes black. Ears still work, though. That is something.

_"When does he need her?"_

_"Three nights, at the latest."_

_"He thinks this one's-?"_

_"It's not my job to know what he thinks, nor is it yours. Just have her ready."_

_"What about the other one? At least he's worth it all."_

Long pause here. _We are being dramatic today, aren't we?_ Annie would giggle, only it isn't funny.

_"He needs more work."_

_"Oh? And who's going to pay for all of that?"_

She can feel lids leadening, sliding against her will until there is a black oblivion.

The silence, at least, lets her rest.

 

* * *

 

_Twenty-four..._

The Capitol means the countdown. It is silent, of course, something in her own head, but that hardly makes it less real.

_Twenty-three..._

She doesn't know what to, precisely, but she hears its ongoing percussion, like a persistent beat on a timpani during a clam bake at home.

_Twenty-two..._

She hears it from the moment she opens her eyes, to the moment she sleeps.

_Twenty-one..._

She would say, from morning to night, but there are no hints as to which is which, in this place.

_Twenty…_

Beep, click, tap-tap, drip. The lines that pump who-knows-what into her flesh make funny sounds, the pressure in them keeping them taught. One is red and she has to look away from it.

_Nineteen…_

Eyes squeeze shut, trying to ignore the inevitable countdown she hears. Being here, she cannot help but going back to it, going back to being a minnow tied to a hook, fish in a net, dragging and luring in the sharks. Everyone has their Games faces on here, after all. Some more literal than others. She must have left hers in the Arena. Perhaps she could find it in the Shadows, if she tries hard enough.

_Eighteen…_

The slide-swoosh-click of the hospital room’s door locks her in, alone in a room of white, surrounded on three sides by glass.

_Seventeen..._

She knows they can see her- at least, she thinks they must be able to.

_Sixteen…_

That is, after all, why the prettiest fish get put in tanks. To be watched.

Anytime she has tried to slide out the needles and threads tethering her here, one nurse or another has come in the room. The last time, they left a clear, empty tube hooked in the notch of her inner left arm.

They say, that if she tries to pull the tubes out, she will regret it.

_Fifteen…_

There is a restraint that keeps one hand tied to the edge of the bed. Do they think she is a danger to anyone? That would be funny, funny, fun-fun, and the laughter bubbles up like a well. It catches and retches and a hyper mind makes a mess of the seizing lungs. The whoosh of chilled, white liquid pulsing through the clear tube into her waiting veins. After what is either seconds, or days, things start to go fuzzy at the edges.

_Fourteen…_

She is laughing to the walls. Sharp edges are turning to soft, fringed carpeting. Annie can almost reach out and run her fingers along them, though the interiors of the fuzzy rectangles still show the reversed image of her hospital room.

They laugh back at her, the mirrors.

Echo, echo, echo. It is hollow, mocking.

Bitter.

Annie never has favored bitter. Even coffee is too much on her tongue. She is uncertain if it actually her own taste, or the inherited opinion of her mother. Though, Papa and Bo have rarely focused their funds on bringing home light brown beans. There are more important things in life, after all.

For instance: have darling, little Annie able to defend herself, in a fight to the death.

After everything that has happened, she still surprises herself with how grateful she feels. This has to be better than being dead, right?

_Thirteen… thirteen…_

_[“We can keep your family safe,” they had said to mama.]_

_No, Annie, think of something else._

The windows are mirrors. It is amusing for, after all, invisible people do not have reflections. The windows show an empty room with an empty bed. Mad girls are easy to overlook.

She starts to run tingling fingers along the thick, plastic tubes.

Another pulse of cold white into veiled blue.

More fuzziness. Her neck aches and she lets her head flop back against the stiff pillow.

_Twelve…_

Annie Cresta is not invisible. Unfortunate, for being visible is not a good thing. Nope, not one bit. Finnick has made that clear.

 _FinnickFinnickFinnick_. A smile tugs at lips. She likes Finnick. He is… nice. Nice? Yes, nice. He needs help, sometimes. Like her.

At that, the edges tilt. Memory jostles. Annie remembers to be nervous again. _Is he here, too? Was that real? Did they really send a hovercraft to home just to get them here? To plug them up and watch them?_

Uncertainly makes Annie’s stomach knot with concern. She cannot help the grimace that she feels on her face.

_Eleven…_

Aslin had given her hugs, sometimes, told her how she should not be sad; how pretty she was. How strangers should not make Annie so uncomfortable. Crippling insecurities did not wait for the Games, only became amplified during and after; harder to shut out.

_Ten…_

Aslin had said, how Annie should not be afraid to go places, or speak to people.

 _“You can’t **just** talk to us,”_ Aslin had insisted, dabbing at the eleven-year-old’s eyes. _“It’s not so bad to talk to a few people, is it? They don’t bite, after all.”_

Annie never had gotten comfortable with strangers, though. She managed enough to get by, at the District’s Career Center, to make friends who she likes, still. Who do not push her, even now. But it only made her dependency on those she did confide in all the more intense.

It is hard to let people in when you feel everything, and fear losing them.

_Nine…_

Because Mama had come and gone, it seemed, and no one ever quite discussed it, and it made expecting people to stick around a very, very scary thing.

_Eight…_

Annie’s memories of her were so confused with the water and sharks and sweets and nets and gunshots.

_Seven…_

Annie tried to talk about it, but it does not translate. Aslin did not understand, could not, because things had been different for her than they were for Annie. Aslin had an auntie and a Ma, never mind a mouth that let everyone know what she thought, for better or worse. Aslin is stronger, in a way.

Annie _(got)_ gets nervous in a different way from what Aslin can fully comprehend.

_Six…_

Especially when she had started having _pibète_ and _monthlies_ and her body had begun to _change,_ with little oil patches bubbling and popping and turning raw when she scratched at the scabs. She had spent quite a bit of time in the bathroom, between ages ten and fourteen, try to ebb the tiny tricklings of blood she had caused, peeling off the still-bubbled skins of drying pimples. Trying to make her buds less obvious, because they were not doing her any favors during the physical competitions at the Career Center.

They had made the scabbing go away, like magic, before the Interviews. Annie wonders, now, if perhaps she ought to not be so grateful for that.

She had liked it at the time, at first, at least. They did it, in part, to put pasties on her points and wrap nets about her like they were shoring up a boat on a mooring.

_I'm a fish in a net._

Finnick had not argued that point, because he is a fish, too.

_Five…_

Pop-boom as the little girl’s round trinket from home rolls and ignites her--

 _No, that wasn’t me, I got out._ Annie’s fingers are curling around her ears, palm pressing her lobe flat against her skull. _Different Games, silly, that was the year before._

_I got out._

She has to tell herself that, because otherwise the shadows begin to win. She does not want to be dead. Dead means gone, means _b-r-o-k-e-n_.

_Four…_

That had been the little girl who made Bo think twice, though. The little girl who exploded on her pedestal, made Bo think twice, about giving Annie Mama’s rounded fishing lure as a token. They took her thimble, too, although she does not understand why, exactly. So, Annie had lost her token.

_Three…_

And when the time came,

When the blood spurted,

When the head rolled,

When the leaves quivered with the sounds of her screams…

Annie had nothing to bring herself back.

(Still doesn't.)

It is hard to come back when you do not know where you have gone.

Minds do not have maps, and she would not have been allowed a map, anyway. Only the Gamemakers get those.

_Two…_

And she stuck them like they stuck Dom, but it had not been the same. It will never be the same. It cannot be.

Killing one, cannot bring another back.

She tried to apologize, thinks she might be saying sorry, even now. The rough, starch-stiffened sheets scratch against her skin. They do not care if she is sorry.

_One…_

No one said they got it, except Finnick.

“Finnick…”

“Miss Cresta,” voice cuts like glass and eyes pop opened.

There is a doctor with a tablet, much thinner and reflective and gleaming, where Doctor Zuccero's had looked more beat-up. Annie wonders, with a flick of a smile, how much they have in their district, which is simply reused trash from here.

"Miss. Cresta." the voice is sharp again, and it makes her shrink, because she does not like that tone. 

_Not good, not good. But I've been good._

"Are we listening?"

There is a sharp sting that lights against her neck; that sets her body to jump, lips letting out a yelp before quivering response offers an affirmative.  _"Yes! Yes!"_

"Good," the man slides something into his pocket, but Annie's eyes are watering. The man looks about to swim clear through the reflective, warping mirror behind him. 

She is smiling, and it is all she can do to keep from laughing.

_Wouldn't it be funny, if he tried swimming in a carpet?_

"Now that I have your attention--and, I _do,_ have your attention. Don't I?" the man's condescension breaks against Annie's disinterest, and in retort she merely stares at him. "Miss Cresta?"

He is reaching back in his pocket, and her body recoils as far from him as can be.

"Yes," Annie's voice sounds foreign, scratchy and whispery and all sorts of things she does not recall it sounding before she went in and came out broken.

"Very good," the man's smile is either simpering or seething, Annie cannot quite decide.

While she wonders, he reaches down, unlocking her right hand from what seems like an added limb of cool metal. The restraint gone, Annie flexes her hand, twisting her wrist instinctively. 

"You've improved as far as we expected you to," he continues. "You've reentered the clinical trial which Physician Hanratty initiated during your Tour."

The man pauses. Annie glances up, when he does, half-afraid he will take out whatever tool he has that caused her pain, before.

"How are you feeling?"

Annie begins to laugh, but cups a hand over her own mouth. What sort of question is that? She quells it, keeps it inside a chest which she inflates enough to drown out the hysteria. 

The doctor stares, and Annie stares back. His hand is edging towards _where that tool had been put--_

"I'mfine," she forces, after a time. It gushes out in a breathless whisper. 

Doctor looks back at his tablet, typing some things in.

"Is Finnick here?" she asks, and it feels like a defeat before the battle has even begun.

The Doctor gives her a cool look; nearing reproach, but seemingly too pitying, considering she is speaking without being spoken to.

Annie wonders if the good doctor has an array of whips, or if that is only the few--  _(every house she has seen seems to have them, though. Maybe it is some form of a fetish?)--_  Eyes shut, one hand stopping just short of clamping over her ear. She forces her eyes to open.

 _This is real, Annie,_ she tells herself. _It's not perfect, but you need to stay here._

_(Finnick could need you.)_

"Is Finnick-?"

"Mr. Odair's medical status is confidential," the doctor replies.

"But he's here?" Annie asks, the gleaming hope sitting oddly in her chest.

_Why does it feel that way, to think about him? This is a terrible place, and you're hoping that he's here, with you?_

The doctor is studying her for a time. "Yes."

 _Yes. Yes!_  Annie finds a smile tilting up her lips, because that means _Finnick isn't dead, really really isn't dead!_  Just like Bo said. It is funny, because she finds, the more people tell her, the less she believes them. Most people don't seem to trust her to deal well with the truth.

It is not paranoid unless you are incorrect.

The doctor leaves without saying anything further.

 

* * *

 

Annie had not expected her stylist. She had not expected her prep team. But mostly, she had not expected to be all dressed up and paraded in front of the cameras again. The car came and  _zoomed_ her right away from the hospital, just herself and the driver, and the escort and the stylist, and an attending nurse, for company.

Annie blinks, trying to steady her vision enough to think clearly.

 _Not by myself, at least,_ she thinks. The blue-tinged stylist is petting Annie's hair gingerly, as if afraid of how Annie will react. She thinks she leans into the touch, but there is too much going on. She feels hot. Her heart feels as if it is pounding away a mile a minute. When she sees the backstage section of the Interviews studio, she begins to feel a panic taking over.

Arms around arms, hands around shoulders. 

She finds herself sitting, the shadows hissing and trying to pull her down with them. She lets them, lets the view become stilted enough to see fuzzy black at the edges of everything.

 _Maybe I am_ _invisible,_ Annie thinks. She thinks she is asking questions, but no one even looks her way.  _Or, maybe, just my **words** are._

A syringe plunges its way through the skin of her arm. Annie stares as some blood peeks out at her, quickly wiped away by white, crisp gauze. A golden band clicks into place, just hiding the little dent made by the needle. 

"Is she ready?" a familiar voice, has a familiar sense of doubt. The team is shifting away, soft mumblings and grumblings.

"Fix the train of that dress!" the bird-boned woman of a stylist is commanding, and it is funny because she does not look the type to be in charge of anything.

Sweat is threatening the edges of Annie's hairline. A dark-skinned man kneels down, fiddling with the train of Annie's dress. She stares, watching him with a needle and thread. She can feel her breathing ease, at the repetition.

"Can I?" she whispers, not fully knowing what she is asking; it does not matter, she believes, because no one will hear her, anyway. 

But the man does hear her. The man looks up. He is younger than she had thought, and he is not some scary color, with some scary artificial addition to his skin.

Annie starts, because  _he is looking right at her._ Instinctively, shoulders rise as if expecting a blow, and she looks down, to see hands mimicking the sewing he had been doing.

A warm hand is on her own hand, stilling the motions. Annie stares at the touch.

"Maybe after," he says, voice surprisingly gentle. "That sound good?"

It is as if he has said it several times, Annie thinks, because he gives her a sad enough smile to make her feel like he really means it.

"Okay," Annie thinks she says, but her lips move without breath coming out.

He still gives her hand a gentle squeeze. 

She almost feels human.

"Pat her down, while you're at it," the voice becomes more firm, though it quiets as the body attached to it comes closer. "The drugs make her sweat. I've had half a mind to tell that doctor..."

The woman stylist stops herself, inspecting the outfit. She is not looking Annie in the eyes. It must be hard to see the vision, when Annie is drugged and seated and a million worlds away.

"All right," the stylist--  _something with a letter 'S,' right?--_ puts a hand on Annie's shoulder. Her other hand guides Annie's chin up. For a moment of dread, Annie wonders, if she is supposed to kiss the person cupping her.

 _That's how he always liked it,_ she recalls.  _Mr. Alexander like it that way._

"Annie, dear," the stylist calls in an almost singsong voice. "Are you ready?"

Annie nods mutely, not knowing what else to do. If lady-stylist says she is ready, she must be, right?

"All right," something flickers in the woman's eyes as she kisses Annie's cheek gently. "Showtime!"

 

* * *

 

"We have a debt to pay, isn't that right, Miss Cresta?"

The insulated greenhouse keeps out the nip of winter that bites at heels outside. Annie is staring at the thorns which have been pruned from long stem of a blood red bloom. He has placed the bloom in Annie's lap, but  all she can stare at is the thorns. She wonders, if she were to prick one of the thorns, if she wouldn't sleep for ages, like a fairytale book she read long ago. Wake up to a kiss of true love.

Sleep sounds lovely.

"Yes," Annie whispers. She is not certain what she is agreeing to, but sleep would sound lovely, and most questions are fifty-fifty, anyway.

"Good," he says, a finger running across Annie's cheek. She shrinks, or at least lets her mind recede into the shadows enough; tries to not feel the cool, dampness of the President's touch.  "You've cost me quite a fortune, Miss Cresta, did you know that?"

Annie's head shakes  _no_ as little as she can manage. She does not want his skin on any more of her than he has already gotten.

"You did very well tonight, though." the man leans down, hot breath against her ear without words for some time. She can smell roses, but something beyond that; something old, and decaying. "I'm sure Mr. Odair will appreciate all of your work to help your district. And to help him, don't you think?"

Annie nods slowly, keeping her eyes on the thorns. Because she is helping to get Finnick treated, and that is what is important.

At least, she hopes it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Post-Halloweeeeeen! I hope everyone had a safe & happy! This is a bit longer and tbh I just wrote this all up on the spot... so please excuse any issues! I'd love some feedback if you'd care to give it!  
> As always, thankyouforreading! <3<3<3


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Annie is not good at following directions.
> 
> (And Finnick is even worse at staying sedated.)

Flashes blind her. She is shaking and the flashes keep going, going going, until the sight of her feet, head tilted down to avoid looking, becomes the only relief.

They are asking things. They sound like the same things Caesar Flickerman had asked.

She could scream, she knows, but they have more shots for that.

She really would rather not sleep until they want her out to play again.

_“What else will you do for charity?”_

_“Who died back home, Miss Cresta?”_

_“How glad are you to be back here?”_

She can only just keep from slapping hands over ears once, then twice, then oncetwicethrice. The shrieking is in her head, high-pitched and the slow steady bubbling of water goes from a comfort to a terror. The sound of waves crashing is replaced by cold, invading smell of metallic freshwater swells, rife with shards of metal and wood-

A hand grips her shoulder, jerks her backwards before directing her to the right. Her footfalls becoming stumbling. She hears the cameras being dismissed

_“But Odair isn’t even awake yet!”_

_“You’ve gotten your pictures,”_ someone retorts; is it a doctor? It’s probably a doctor. Though the camera-people _mumble-grumble-groan-cuss_ they listen. People always listen to doctors.

A set of locked doors swing with barely-audible _chime-chime-chiming,_ and Annie is left just inside the section. There is a blue stripe down the center tiling of this otherwise white-grey floor. Annie does not know what that means.

Her section has green center tiling.

Is her section up, or down?

The wings of the hospital are confusing, at best. Painfully terrifying, at their worst.

Cold, hard glass thumps her shoulder, though she must be the one thumps it, right? _One, two, three, four_ starts turning to _Four, three, two, one,_ and the sounds invade like a sickening welcome, like sunlight through computerized sky--

 _Oh, yes, I remember what that was like_ \--

(She had to say she didn't. Mags says it is best if she didn't)--

But it does not matter because she has hands on ears (silence is safest) and rear has dragged her body to set on the floor.

They do not notice.

_Do they?_

She does not dare to look. They’re running and there’s talk and _grumble-mumble-cuss,_ and she keeps at the rhythm _One alligator, two sea turtles, three seagulls, four (four!) homes,_ because it is steady, and a comfort, with so much inconsistency about her. They will not let her arrange things, when they give her food, because it is not what the people who shove her back want.

 _One_ tap _two_ tap _three_ tap and then massage, _rub-rub-rub_ the sounds out because they are turning high-pitched.

(Is that grunting? She thinks it could be but they said she wasn't too bruised, this time, and it's thankfully hazy.

They like it when she is hazy. Well, some of them do.)

Slowly, it begins to fade, the racing heart, the seizing lungs. She begins to calm, and calm, and still, though the laugh wants to bleed out. She keeps it to a simple giggle _(is there anyone to be happy for her?),_  since giggles are manageable. Eyes let themselves be slaughtered by light, and she starts to count the tiles around her.

_One, two, three, five, five, six-seven-eight-nine-te--_

_No, this is twenty,_ she thinks, she thinks she is up to twenty.

She glances up, wondering if she were counting aloud if it would help any.

Probably not.

Eyes squeeze shut, head shaking again.

All wrong, it’s all wrong. There’s nothing steady except the whiteness of the walls, and the scent, the scent of metal-water, like the dam, like the shower, like the one thing the Capitol thinks is funny to drink.

No, this is not a pool. It is not chlorine, tossed in until water is chemical and bubbling and heated like the nice lady says is best, but it is not filtered. What does the air here even tastes like? The lady said she tasted like the sea, but Annie does not think anyone here could know.

The water didn't taste like the sea. Nothing does, except when she is home. The water here is too--

too--

_(She still starts at the idea, at the notion, as the slowly horrifically vivid image, of the white-crested wave rising up, slowly swarming down the hallways, chasing her and swallowing her whole--)_

She opens her eyes, one hand lifting down to press against the hard weight of tile floor. It is cool to the touch. She thinks it must be sturdy, if it is keeping an invisible girl from melting clear through, to the earth’s molten core.

Annie tries to tell herself there is nothing to fear.

But it is a laugh, really, one that bubbles up and could leave her in stitches, if it not for the crippling chill in _lungs stomach head (heart)._

They are in the Capitol, after all.

The Capitol is fear incarnate.

Head jerks up, at the shadow passing over her. It does not pass, and shivers come, because this might mean--

 _‘But I just got back,’_ she thinks she could say, but does not.

Because mad girls are better off being quiet, they said.

(Thus the shots.)

She sees a nurse towering above, and curled-up a tiny red-head as she may be, she progressively feels more small as seconds go by.

 _One_ tap, _two_ tap, three tap, _onetwothree_ tap. She tries to shake the buzzing of shadows away, but it does not relieve her of her apparent companion.

Annie’s shoulder’s hunch together, before daring to meet the stranger’s eyes.

Red hair peeks out, from behind a nurse’s cap, and Annie gulps _(is it audibly? can she hear it like a surround-sound like I can in my head?)._

The woman puts a finger over her lips, before holding a hand out.

"I'm taking you to the release room," is the explanation. "Come on, it's all right, now."

Annie tentatively takes it, grateful when, rather than pull her straight to her feet, the woman holds out with infinite patience for Annie to stand on her own. She pats Annie’s hand _(puppy again or broken girl? maybe both?)_ and quietly guides her around the corner of the glass against which she had been apparently abandoned.

“He’s been asking for you,” the woman says, pausing, and upon closer inspection, Annie realizes this woman cannot be much older than sixteen--

_Seventeen, I’m seventeen! Wakeup!_

\--herself.

“Who has been asking?” she lets it sound as shy and shaky as it will. Annie is not equipped with a penchant for pretense.

_(They called her a ‘lovely waif’ before she went in, she wonders what that even means_

_no one likes waifs and no one gives a damn about sweet tributes_

_maybe it’s meant to be a compliment_

_but it's here and there and gone again_

_and no one wants to take Annie out on the town.)_

“Mr. Odair,” the name shifts her stomach and she feels--

Annie feels--

_is this happiness or panic?_

Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference. Her chest flutters and shutters the same way, under the right conditions.

“Is…” Annie thinks she is lost for a moment, but when she blinks back to focus, the same man in sky blue shoes is still passing (not leisurely, either) and she clears her throat. “He okay?”

“Yes,” is the carefully neutral response.

“May I see him?” she whispers.

 _‘May’_ is better than _‘can’_ and all little girls need to be better when it comes to conversation _(until they’re starving in the arena crying under bushes or trying to avoid the shards of glass in the flow that drowns everything, including little waif girls)._ But conversation seems to elude her, including now. The woman jerks her head in a ‘no’ but that cannot be _cannot can’t can not--_

“Please, I… would like to, um,” Annie swallows heavily, looking down to try to think more clearly. If they were home, she could make something, perhaps not valuable but passable enough to be nice. To trade.

_Trade._

The words sticks like chewing gum once stuck on a shoe in her hair laughing laughing--

_No, this isn’t funny._

_**Trade**._

A glint catchings seagreen eyes, and Annie quickly grapples with the bracelet slapped around her wrist as lips pressed hers to pulsing.

_Didn’t want it, it’s dirty and supposed to appease some sense of guilt that slid at the edges, echoing unsaid with the hot wet moans--_

_No,_ Annie stops herself, holding the diamonds out.

She does not look at the bracelet, closing her eyes and trying to keep the shaking and panicking at bay.

“Take it?” it is a plea and not an order. "And I can see him?"

_(Annie isn’t allowed to give orders. If she could, she’d be home, by now.)_

A long moment seems to pass, before the weight relieves Annie’s hands. A heavy sigh mimics the bizarre elation, so that she half-wonders if what they breathe here isn't air at all, but something metal that slowly congeals inside of lungs, pressing eternal weights that stick them to whatever it is that curses and keeps and holds with visceral cruelty.

The woman moves forward. Annie follows closely. She feels like a mouse of a small child, little and tiny and petrified of everything when someone wasn’t holding her hand. She is glad, though her view is skewed, to see no feet encumber their pathway.

_Quiet._

It is quiet, here.

The _ping_ of a _click_ of a _ding_ of a _drumdrumdrum of keys,_ brings her focus up, eyes watching carefully as the woman types into a panel. A door to the left opens. Annie hesitates, but the woman makes a motion, and Annie is quickly ushered through. She stops at the inner cusp, blinking at the sight.

A pale little slip of a boy is on the bed, tubes pumping into his arms. 

Goose-pimples prickling up and down Annie's arms, before making her spine shudder. She looks behind her, only to see the door shut with a gentle click. Steps into the white room seem too loud; there is nothing to muffle them, nothing to keep her from the mirrors (can they see me, or am I invisible here, too?), which glower back the stark whiteness of the room, and brightness of the lights, until it is nearly painful. Annie imagines worlds upon worlds upon worlds, where each different section of reflective glass offers a different path, a different reality. Maybe, in one, Finnick is Dom and Dom isn't--

isn't--

A moan, and bizarre whimper. Annie tries to steel herself, swallowing heavily yet again before stepping closer. 

The pale form is still far darker than her, but ashen, bordering a dark grey. There is a mask over a perfectly chiseled jawline, tubes flowing into muscular arms.

"Finnick?"

Her voice, raspy and timid is a trigger, in the way the tool the doctor has, when she does not respond quickly enough, triggers her to comply. Finnick's eyes struggle, but opened, a fierce determination which flutters her stomach; a hardness, and yet, and yet, there is that flicker, when their eyes meet.

A flicker of fear.

Suddenly his chest begins heaving, monitors beeping too quickly to mean normality is being maintained.

Hands are tearing at the tubes, body trying (failing) to escape from the bed.

And then, Finnick begins to scream.

* * *

 

She is not meant to be here. 

They keep telling Annie that, but seeing as the release-room is apparently unready for her, and her room at the Training Center  _(nonononononono,_ she had thought, and barely kept herself off of the brink) is not ready, either, she has managed to sneak back here, on her own.

Three _(three?)_ hours ago, Finnick tore out tubes linked to his veins. The blood was everywhere and Annie got sick, because it was like Dom's head and the severed spurting arteries, hot and groping at her through the tree-cover.

Only, Finnick's head is still attached, and his pulse never stopped.

The doctors rushed in, reprimanded her in harsh tones, ' _What did you do?!'_

and,  _'He wasn't like this until you showed up!'_

Annie had tried to stop them, as they held him down and dosed him, with the white liquid they usually reserve for her.

Because he is scared. 

He is so, so terribly scared, and she wants to protect him. They do not understand, the doctors. They think he got broken, she supposes. They said as much. But he is not.

_Nononono, you don't understand!_ she had thought; because, as the drugs kicked in, he had said things about Games. 

He had looked over at her, and said he was sorry for ruining her night.

He said her name. It means h e had known she was there. 

Maybe he knows she is here now.

_ Deep breath, deep breath, stay steady. _

Annie is probably going to be in trouble.

She was meant to get an injection about an hour (she thinks) ago. She can only assume that the reason they have not dragged her, kicking and screaming, from where she stands vigil outside of Finnick's room, is because when they 'release' her to the Training Center they are going to make her sleep again.

It shudders, but does not shock the system.

Annie Cresta is only useful when she is drugged.

The President says as much. Hazy makes it easy, sometimes.

Unless she throws up or starts crying. That makes it harder, although, not for her.

_(That is a secret, though, can't tell anyone; they wouldn't buy in.)_

Glass reflects an obscured version of Annie's face back at her. She leans in closer, to better see through to Finnick. She tried to stop them, from restraining him. They did it, anyway. Manacles on wrists and ankles. His eyes are twitching, beneath the lids.

He looks so...  _so..._

_(Distraction, quick! get a distraction)_

Annie has not seen her nursey-friend. She thinks, perhaps, she might have got the woman in trouble. At least, the lady got the diamond bracelet, and perhaps that could serve some use. Shiny things are very useful in the Capitol, supposedly.

Eyes shut, forehead pressing against the glass. They have not put blinders on the glass, so the cameras may be here soon, may be here for another news update on  _the_ Finnick Odair.

That he is injured is bringing the Capitol to melancholia.

Some woman on television says she will give all her earnings to District Four, once Finnick makes his recovery complete.

(Which means, she will trade everything to Four, for Finnick. Annie understands this, but she tries not to think about it.)

Is it selfish, to want him to get better? He has to pay back damages now, too, and Annie begins to go away again, because _the hands and the grips and he has to keep a smile on, where she gets to cry._

_(Some of them like it, when she cries.)_

Annie glances about, pursing her lips and frowning, upon noting that there is nowhere around. 

Cameras, oh, cameras, surely they see her, but what can it mean, if no one has been sent in person to 'monitor' her?

It speaks and speaks until all that is left is silence.

Annie eyes the keypad to the door, carefully thinking through the sequence she had witnessed; and, trying to recall the aspects she had not.

Fingers are faltering, and get the codes wrong once. The second try, proves better luck. 

 _What was the word?_ Annie tries to recall, as the door opens and she slips inside, for the second time today.  _Crap-shoot. I am a crap-shoot, and so is Finnick._

 

She tries to measure her steps, tries to tiptoe as best can be. When next to him, far closer, than before, his eyes shoot clear opened, and Annie freezes. Too direct, too direct, _he's seeing the invisible girl, after all she has tried to hide._

Immediately, the panic begins.

"I'm sorry, sorry!"

Mind begins to pull apart, until she is seeing the bloodied head and the jeers and the questions, _the hands on her thighs before she regained herself enough to know the knife in her hand--_

A groan, and Annie's hands are over her ears, but eyes are wide-opened.

"Mm," a grumble tries to pierce through

Annie is shaking her head, stepping back and freezing. What she sees is not the hospital room, for the tiles veer off into plains, though they are soaked with water a foot high-- and in that water, bloated and cackling are the heads.

She is on the floor. She is on the floor and she can hear something clinking, then rustling. A snap and then a yelp of pain, causing her to start. Ears are still covering her, protecting her from sounds; but the eyes will not close, and each blink blurs the line between taunting imagination and callous reality.

Another clink. Another groan.

_(Another scream, another crack in the sky as panels spark shred then dim and go black, leaving a chasm where the computerized screens ought to be a whole midday sky)_

A hand appears, reaching out to her. A hand with manicured nails, and a tube in the vein. Used to be bronzed with the sun, but now the sun has been turned off.

 _We didn't have tubes in there,_ she thinks, after a moment of staring.

The hand disappears, before another snap, and a groggy mumble.

A groggy mumble saying her name.

 _Don't, don't, nonononono,_ her head _(the shadows in it, at least)_ pleads with her, tells her to stay in paralyzed fear. No moving, no speaking. Stay still (it's kept you safe before, more or less). But then, her name is repeated. The hand is beckoning, half-limp over the side of the bed but struggling, all the same.

 _"Annie,"_ it is more firm this time, but she cannot bear to look up. Ears _ringringring,_ but they are not going anywhere, for the time being (hospitals may be advanced, but as of yet, the building cannot fly). So, Annie sits on the floor, and ever-so-slightly, ever-so-timidly reaches out, touching the proffered hand with one finger.

A sigh. A sigh, and she knows that sigh. She heard, back a million years and yet forward a million, too. Eyes carefully follow the path, and realizing the whole arm is shaking, body snaps to attention.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She takes the hand _(only one limb escaping, and just barely, to freedom from restraint)_ in both of hers, tries to read what Finnick's face, filled with pain, might say, but eyes are turning slightly glassy, and the lines are contorted.

Little white patches linger, what Annie assumes to be from some sort of medical procedure. Carefully, gingerly, she rises to her knees, and lifts his dangling right arm back to the stability of his hospital bed. He is watching her, intently, and Annie feels a dance of fear and affection and coldcoldcold dread, because _what is going to happen to Finnick?!_

"You should sleep," she begins, but his hand only tightens around hers, and his eyes show no signs of surrender.

"Annie," is his reply. Annie does not know whether it is the drugs, a hallucination, or sincerity. But he looks petrified at the prospect of sleeping, never mind of releasing Annie's hold. "Please don't go."

"Okay," Annie murmurs. She clears her throat, slowly (shakily) rising and setting herself to perch on the edge, next to his right arm. 

He says no more, but is watching her _(trying to see how long I will stay?),_ watching like she is the only important thing in the world. When he begins to cry, softer, now, so, so, filled with discontent at his own revelation, Annie does not know what to do. She leans over, wrapping him in a loose hug. She lets him cry into her shoulder, the awkward angle tossed aside at his obviously needing something, anything.

He calms, quickly, whether by force of will, or sincere comfort, Annie is unsure. But his free hand wraps around her, begs her to relax against him now, and when she does, it feels like an odd harmony. 

Comfort.

Comfort in the dark.

"It's going to be okay," is passed back and forth between them, like a hot potato.

Annie's still not sure who lies best.

She supposes Finnick, as the drugs lull her to sleep that night in the ugly bed in the ugly room in the ugly building that started this whole mess.

He isn't the one who had fallen into shadows, the moment the doctors had Peacekeepers drag her out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

_There once was a girl who was made of the sea, and the slightest of breezes could turn her into foam. There wasn't any logic to it, just a lot of softness, and even more salt._

_For some reason, people still liked to slip in and out. As if the harsh churning that intermittent with blissful calm was merely a trick of the mind. As if the gentle scraping of her tide against shore was meant to beckon, not keep at bay._

_And the people, oh, some still throw offerings to the bottom of her depths, lovely things that glitter, but still drip with the stain of their touch. So they bury her, drown her, blow her about in her foamy, flighty way._

_But that's never meant the ocean is a safe place to whisper your sins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouforreadinggg!! I know this is moving slowly, so a massive thank you to everyone who's been so kind and patient with me!! as always, any comments/crit./etc. is deeply appreciated. <3


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping healthy // keeping hazy.
> 
> (Or, what started out as a very short chapter. And ended longer than I meant it to be.)

The sheets reek.

She is not certain if it is her imagination, or if the man(lady?) had smelled as wretched as her mind now recalls in memory, but the sheets smell of overly-fermented alcohol and perfume. She would like oils, homemade and slick as a dolphin's skin; but apparently they prefer lotions here, things that are manmade to natural wonders.

_'Eugenie Ossa is pregnant, did you hear?'_

The name (meant) means nothing, and Annie does not think the question had been for her.

_Eugenie, Eugenie, Eugenie._

Back and forth then back again.

Nothing. 

Fingers twist a bit of cloth between fingers, and as she rolls to the side, the world pitches in. The voice invades.

_Kiss press grip jerk rocking rocking rocking (just a dash of Dom's head, Dom's body--_

_Didn't, don't want to.)_

and the thoughts of hers differ from the thoughts of the shadows, saying,

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, couldn't save you_

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, couldn't stop them_

_couldn't, wouldn't, failure/ failed/ failing_

_mwen swete w pa t 'te di m' kache._

_Maybe if I stop it it'll feel better_

_sometime the pain makes it feel better._

_Not their pain, not their electrical zap,_

_but pain of flesh brought low by nails or by (gruff) taps to walls._

_Not meant to do that, though._

_Don't want to disappoint Mr. President._

_The pain when they do it isn't the same._

_It's different, when it comes from me._

_[If we had babies, would Dom do it like they do it?_

_Or could I be more than half-awake?_

_Could he do it without making me want to cry?]_

_(Sex education was never terribly important in the Career Center.)_

Crinkled cloth expels her like a bad disease, one the doctor has yet to update her against. Cold feet find a cold floor, chilled carpet, though it is soft as anything. Her head feels so inflated, pounds so much against the bones of her skull, that she could sweat it has been filled with gallons of hot air. Goosebumps flick across her body, and nudity makes it worse.

A shower makes it better, but then she smells, too. Is almost worse than before.

She thinks they make the buttons confusing on purpose.

Now _she_ reeks. She wonders if they laundered her, like they do the sheets, if she would come out any worse than now.

Doctor says all can be done is _shotsshotsshots_ and _here have another glass_ and _lay still now._ He says she has improved as much as (they need her to) she can.

The bed is stripped by the time she pulls one of the provided dresses on. Convenient, that the door was steamed with the kiss of fog, isn't it? She guesses this is what the next _and the next and the next_ want her to wear. Or, is the Avox just being nice?

This one had brushed through her hair the other night, put a blanket around her shoulders as the bruises bloomed to the surface. He has not been sent away yet, and Annie wonders what this means. He really is not meant to be  _kind_ to her, just clean up after her.

(If he already had his tongue cut out, and she's already mad, she guesses it doesn't mean anything.)

They only have two Avoxes on the floor, and while it could be protocol, because it is off-seasons, it could just because it is  _her_  in residence.On a scale of one to ten, Annie Cresta is only a two because of the situation, because Finnick is incapacitated, for the moment. Not because of her, herself.

She wanted to ask, why Daran or Librae or Ross, or any of the others (she knows there are others, but her brain is only so big), why none of them are here. Why it is just her and Finnick. Really, it does not make sense. But, she is afraid, if she asks, that President Snow will call them here, too.

A terribly selfish part of her wants them to be here, so that she does not have to do this, by herself.

She wishes she could send Finnick home, and herself. At the least, she can keep quiet, and be sure not to draw attention to the others who are  _not_ here.

The door to the hallway has been left opened, and dizzy as she is, her stomach is gnawing at her for fulfillment. She has tried the door, after an appointment, when it is  _not_ opened, and it had been locked, she assumes from outside.

Feet pad, _slowslowslow_ through. The television in the living room is bursting, images of  _homehomehome_  flooding memory with shaky reminders that she isn't there.

 _They don't need you,_ someone had said. _They want you to be here, why do you think they sent you here? You'll get them money, after all._

She cannot remember who told her that, but it was a whisper and then they pet her and told her to dance for the camera.

Annie always has liked to dance.

Skirting around the living room, though, is a dance of a different sort. A hand lingers at her right ear, choosing to rub compulsively at the flesh just beneath, just at the end of her jaw. It is some form of a comfort.

The table is set for one, but the flute for champagne _(remember how they toasted me and I cried?)_ is filled with water instead, and there is far more food than Annie cares to consume. 

They put roast chicken out, and Annie glances to the windows, because it does not make sense that anyone would have roast chicken for breakfast.

And yet, the inky-pinky of a slowly rising sun says otherwise.

Annie carefully eats, tiny bits at a time, until her stomach stops with its insistence at being heard. Annie looks around, spotting the Avox who had been nice to her off to the side. Like the other one, eyes are set on the floor, and the uniform lends a lack of identity to them, as best it can.

The door swishes opened, and everything goes rigid. Memory comes up like the wave she sees crashing through rooms now (always) and the shrieks of blood-splattered peons who fail and fall (like her) screaming away whatever bit of self-respect might have clung to them.

"Miss Cresta," that familiar voice says.

He clears his throat.

Annie carefully (hide the shaking!) wipes her hands off, before pushing her chair back. When she gets close enough, he takes her by the elbow and they go back to her room. He pats the bed, and she sits, staring at the ceiling, at the floor, at anywhere where her mind can bore into as a means of escaping. A hand pats at her thigh, as he rests his little medical case on the floor. He pulls a stool over, sitting so that he will have a perfect view of--

of--

"Just lay back, dear," Physician Hanratty says. Annie slowly does, letting her head rest against the scratchy, raw unmade bed. "We're just going to need a culture, in case."

Annie slowly tries to project the sea to the ceiling, the fish and the pools and the scent of the ocean--

oh, the sea, the sea, she wishes she could just float in the waves.

"Wider, dear."

She thinks she must do what he wants, because something flicks and she flinches, and she tries to focus on her sea, on the boats and buoys bobbing.

 _Blink, blink, blink, you know the code, you know what it means_ (sometimes the lights flash it out across the glimmering waves, and it's nigh impossible to tell, but somehow, Bo always knows.

Bo always knows, when someone is asking for help.

And most people with sailors for brothers know what Moores Code is.

A pat to the knee, and legs snap closed.

"Sit up, now," he says, and his voice is stuck somewhere in a haze, but somewhere that she can still recognize a command for what it is. Annie obeys, holding out her arm, and trying to ignore the pinch in the vein when the medicine goes through. "Very good. Why don't you get some rest, Miss Cresta?" 

"Okay," Annie returns woodenly.

He leaves, and a familiar figure enters the room, the Avox, who again proceeds to brush her hair, gently. Annie rests her head in the man's lap. He seems surprised, if only momentarily, before resuming his duty, relieving her of knots much more carefully than the styling team.

It is a peaceful slumber, this time, even if the drugs are a contributing factor.

The ocean in her mind is much more reachable than before.

 

* * *

 

 

They take her out. Not with her, not hands in hands and tugging but subtle, subtle. Subtle has never been Annie's _thing._

The car brings her to a bar and the bar is packed with colorful shiny things that masquerade as people dressed up (it's the opposite of the pretense: they pretend to be people, when they're really costumes with faces). They coo, reach out and touch her, but she's the mad one, the one they cannot predict  _so be careful, darling, you don't know what she's libel to do!_ and the tries to keep from shaking because crowds and constrictions and her brain goes dumb, autopilot having feet  _lift forward step _lift forward step_ _lift forward step_ _lift forward step.__

She gets a drink for free (ha-ha, _free,_ isn't that a joke?) and the bartender is refilling and refilling. Everything feels so much nicer, bubbly, _normalized._

She takes her in the back room _sit lay laugh smile, Annie, they like it better when you smile_ and there's a lot of people but they bleed out and out the doors until its just two, just Annie and someone-- what's the name? And does it matter?

_No._

When she leaves everything under her dress hurts (and another shot) and everything is fuzzy(another shot) and black spots interrupt the feed (another shot) and she can't go in her room anymore (and another shot), can'tcan't can-not (another shot).

So she showers.

So the Avoxes seem to have gone, left her clothes in the room that smells-- it does, it _smells like they do--_

So a drink from the liquor cabinet turns into several, until everything is _sososo_ much nicer and she cuddles up on the couch, spilling blood red wine down her gullet until she cackles, giggles, curls up under a blanket.

Warm and soft and  _better._ The television is showing a fashion show and it's nice for company, at least enough to feel as if she is not alone and lonely.

So, she sleeps.

 

* * *

 

The quiet buzz of the living room’s television invades her ears as a scent wafts through, all at once sickening and sparking awareness through her system.

_Coffee._

Body whips upright, stomach roiling with the pervasive musk. She runs for it, but feet stagger, unsteady, half-wakened limbs disorienting her. She is uncertain where she is headed, but it makes no difference. Before she gets where feet are guiding her, stomach pitches inwards, sending a spew of acidic refuse out from between her lips.

Arms wrap around her- grounding, steadying.

She is shivering, and feet now trip over one another, for the arms are _tugging, tugging, tugging._ Shushing, hushing, low quiet sounds seek to ease her mind now, as the arms ease her pace.

Bathroom. They are in the bathroom.

Instinctively, upon spotting the cool tile floor next to the toilet, her rear meets ceramic, while her right shoulder meets the plastered wall. A tanned hand opens the seat cover. She jerks forward, retching again. A hand is at her back, rubbing warm circles in reassurance. Tan hand waves over the back of the toilet, and Annie watches an abrupt whirlpool. It sucks it all away into some deep, dark chasm, beyond what she can see.

She whimpers, and a soft hush comes from lips she does not bother to look at.

Stomach gives a start a few times, but nothing comes out apart from noisy gags. She sits there, legs splayed to either side of her, forming a letter ‘W,’ while her upper body sways unsteadily. Warm hand lingers between her shoulders, still continuing the comforting repetition.

After a time, stomach stops with the contracting, and Annie can’t help a soft hitch in her breath.

“It’s okay,” a voice says.

The smell of coffee carries on his tongue and Annie grimaces, thankful that her stomach seems to be settling.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” the apologetic nature connects a million dots, and watered eyes blink up in surprise.

_What is Finnick doing here?_

“You had a rough night, I take it?”

“Coffee,” Annie states numbly, before shaking her head.

She means to continue, but instead she stares at the still-refilling toilet bowl.

“The smell?” Finnick asks, his head cocking to one side.

He looks so much like a parrot that Annie feels a laugh building. It is hard to suppress.

"Or did I just dazzle you too much?" he adds with a wink.

"The smell," Annie answers after a pause. She grimaces a bit. "My mouth tastes bad."

“Let me get some salt to rinse out,” he winces, as stands.

She feels a peck to the top of her head, and confusion overtakes her mind.

_What was that?_

Annie realizes he has been knelt on the floor next to her, and recalls his injuries-- the stitches in his side, and the technicolor of his bruises. He was hooked up in a hospital bed.

"Finnick...?"

She wants to ask, if he is not in too much pain, but he is gone from the room before her words and her mind connect.

When he returns, he eases himself on the floor next to her, holding out some warm water, with salt mixed in. He sets a second glass, with freshwater, and two pink tablets, on the sink counter.

They sit in silence for a time, as Annie finishes off the saltwater rinse.

She spits, once more, after finishing off the rinse. His hand is on her back. She feels one part stifled, other part comforted. Annie reaches back, flushing the toilet herself. She shifts, pulling knees to her chest. She does not realize that his hand is still on her back, until he pulls away. He holds out the water _(fresh- no, not like the waves shut up, brain)_  and the tablets and she swallows and drinks, pausing to fiddle with the dress leftover from the night (night?) before.

His back rests against the sink cabinet, and she sees him pull out about the tiniest cord of rope imaginable.

“Hospital?” the voice is cracked and frayed, and Annie stares at the beautiful figure, skin tanned (falsely, now), with a face that seems sculpted by some brilliant artisan, or genius scientists.

"Early release," Finnick retorts, not looking at her.

"You're better?"

"I'm perfect, honey. Thanks to you."

That diamond-sheen of a smile, bright as the highest wattage, flashes at her. It instills some odd relief, though the falsity of it ought to get under her skin. A hand reaches out, brushing her hair back from her face. The warmth sends an odd electricity, and she shifts where she is; averts her eyes. She does not understand what it means, and it is frightening because of that.

Annie hums to herself, diverting her gaze. She thinks she knows what he means 

_(I had to keep your head above, Finnick, don't you know you'd've drowned otherwise? It isn't something to be thanked for, really. Wouldn't you do that for me? I wonder, I wonder...)_

but it's not something she wants to think about, because it is too raucous and violent a memory.

He says no more about it. She can only assume he does not want to discuss it, either.

Finnick fiddles with the rope, as Annie swirls the cup, watching as the water swirls about. She wants it to become a whirlpool or a maelstrom or something, but, no, it is just water. So, she drinks it, instead, happy that there is no wave crash no sounds screeching. Instead, it's just the Mad Girl and the Capitol's pretty-boy. ****

"Finnick?" she asks.

He makes a noncommittal grunt, twisting the rope but changing his mind, instead knotting it at the center.

"Are you really better?"

He pauses at that, giving her an odd smirk. "Sure."

She does not believe him, but stares at her empty glass, instead. She pictures the water refilling, time rewinding until a thousand possibilities present themselves, the water overflowing to a corporeal form, slowly encapsulating and biting and dissolving with acidity. 

Before she can think about it, Annie has smashed the glass against the tile floor.

"Me, _tou,"_ she says.

Finnick begins to laugh.

Annie cannot help but join in, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving if you're celebrating! Hope you have a safe happy & healthy holiday! <3
> 
> (& please don't kill me I promise happier times are coming in this story!)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half of one, and quarter of the other.
> 
> (Or, some lighter-ish moments happen amidst the dark)

_"Tèlman fatige,"_ she whispers. She may have said and said and said again, but she is sure it has not translated.

Because she just woke up, and Finnick is staring at her. It makes her shoulders hunch up and eyes to watch her own hands fidget.

He is not touching her, but sits with her. It's... a comfort.

But she feels the need to explain and all the words get lost in her head. Hot air builds up and bubbling out in quiet, _quietquiet_ breaths. 

Lips hang opened, but she cannot explain. It cannot translate, just like she cannot translate the exhaustion making her sit and watch and sit and wait. She is grateful when he nudges her shoulder, points at the screen. The remote has pulled up the coast, with the waves lapping, gently at the shore. The gulls cawing and the sky blue, blue, blue. So blue she loses herself in it, for a time, picturing floating on her back, counting the specks of white; counting the glints of sunlight caught in her eye.

A warm hand rests on her upper back, now. She wonders if it is odd that she does not start at the contact.

 _Silly me,_ she thinks,  _that's because it doesn't come with a scary memory, but a nice one._

 _"Swimming helps,"_ she remembers him saying.

"It does," Finnick states. Casual, so casual, in affirmation of her own thoughts. 

_Confusing._

Stop. 

Think.

Calm,  _take a breath,_ and engage.

Annie _(re-)_ starts, staring at him. "Oh."

His lips turn up at the edges. A smile. Not that one on the posters, or on the television.

He always looked so damn pretty--

_(didn't I tell Fabi once how cute I thought he was when he came to demo at the Center?)_

it is difficult to remember that he has no reason to tease, or to make her like him.

 _That's why he's kind,_ Annie thinks to herself.

"I said that," she finally replies, delayed.

He has waited for her, and she appreciates this. She just hopes he has not been trying to speak to her, because if so, she has not heard it. And if she has missed words he has spoken, it will make her feel guilty, in a way.

"I did," Finnick tells her, nodding. It is easy, his words, lips flow like a well-oiled canning machine in the factory. So easy it makes her feel less insecure about what she says. "You remembered. You repeated me."

She likes that he knows the question that had lingered in her words. Sometimes the framing comes out wrong and words gush, not _flow,_ from her; but stilted and wrong- not like him. Never like him.

(And she wonders, if it's from all the time here, with all of the costumes dressed as people, and the sparkles to hide the hollows that makes them need to eat and eat and vomit and eat again. She wonders if he's like this on purpose, on accident, or by nature.

_Did nature make Finnick Odair, or is he synthetic?)_

_"Regrèt,"_ she says, automatically. 

It could be for anything, really, but partially it is for thinking, even for a moment, that Finnick is part of this.

He's not, not,  _notnotnotnot-_

_Knot._

_Knot!_

She laughs, covering her lips with her hands before shaking it off.

Stop. 

Think.

_One bonfire, three mangroves, five wailing tots in the flat next door._

_(I should go and check on them, Papa-!)_

Calm,  _take a breath._  Engage.

Say something nice.

His shirt is purple. Bright, vibrant purple.

_ (Did that used to be my favorite color? _

_ [How can I be confused about that?] _

_ Big baby.) _

Say something _kind_ like he is.

"Shirt's nice," Annie contributes, brightly.

He does not reply to that. Her gaze moves from his clothing to his face. She sees him watching the screen, forehead furrowed into a frown. He does not look lost in it, though, he looks as if he is concentrating so intently. He is seeking, in the scene, some distraction. When he turns, expression oddly contorted, she wonders what he has been studying the image for. 

"You don't have to apologize, Annie."

His hand shifts on her back. She swallows heavily, not because it hurts, but because it makes her feel--

_What is the word?_

_(It's in here, somewhere, it's just gotten hidden by all of the shadows and confusion.)_

"You want to take a swim?" Finnick asks suddenly. There is something in his eyes, something odd; it is two parts mischievous, one part beseeching. 

Annie's shoulders raise, hunching up. She wants to say yes, at least try (seawater is salty, and pool-water is likely filled with chlorine, so it could be different from the memories), but she does not know how much of an option _taking a swim_ really is.

"We're allowed," he continues, easily. Easing through her silence, but not _stepping crushing berating_ it. "I actually know a place, it's not too far."

"You'd like to swim, too?" Annie checks. She tilts her head, and sees the idea has him sparking, in a way.

He wants to swim.

Swim like breath like air.

"Sure," he nods his head towards the dresser, a few feet away. "I've got some trunks, for me."

He has told her she shouldn't be sleeping in his room, but there are too many _things_ that her own room has had (some are so fuzzy, but still there) that it makes the location terrifying.

Annie thinks she knows, what he is implying, but she clears her throat, eyes going to her fidgeting hands.

 _You've got some swimsuits in your room, Annie,_  she thinks he is trying to say.

"I don't... _pa kapab..."_ she cannot finish the sentence, cannot go back to the room _(had to sedate her last time)_. 

Finnick, they take out.

Annie, they keep in, let the  _customers_ come to her. Usually.

She is not sure how many. She is sure, thought, that Finnick has had more.

"Stitches," she counters. It is a lame excuse, one that, when she looks over, has Finnick grinning.

"Waterproof."

The stitches in his side are waterproof. Annie takes a deep breath.

"Can you...?" Annie feels shoulders rising again, the sinking feeling making her take a steadying breath. 

Stop. 

Think.

Stay afloat, concentrate.

_ There we _ _go,_ she thinks, taking another breath. 

"Of course," Finnick nods. "Be right back, okay?"

Annie nods.

He ruffles her hair as he leaves, and though she wrinkles her nose, the coolness that replaces where his hand has been on her back makes her shudder. 

The sound of the sea, on the screen, pulls her gaze up. The image of a wave, rising, rising floods her mind and she begins to quiver, watching the water, the churning swirls envelope the room, flooding up to her ankles, and rising, always, always--

Feet pull up to the bed, and she wraps arms around her knees, shaking her head--

_"No, no--"_

 

"Annie," a firm voice, blinks seeing him wade, and the walk, and then wade through the water again.

"Don't--" she cannot finish the sentence, because one moment, he is simply walking on carpet, the next, his ankles slosh against the rising current.

"Annie," the voice repeats.

She closes her eyes, presses hands to her ears, shaking her head.

_Noise, yelling, screams, shattering branches as the crack sets alarms in the sky._

The noise is the confusing part. It makes the real voices more difficult to discern.

"Flood."

"No," he assures, but his voice is muffled through the press of her own hands.

 _Hands_ appear on shoulders, warm. Sturdy, but not brutal.  _Hands_ carefully rubbing up and down her arms.

"Annie, it's just your mind," he says. "Look, look."

Eyes open, flick to the floor, for assurance. She presses them closed once more, before opening, shifting forward. She peers over the side of the bed, shaking breaths heavy as she tries to tell herself _it's in my head in my mind not there, not really._

Hands lower from her ears, and she gulps, feeling a thickness in her throat, like a film of water caught there.

His hold on her shoulders loosens, slowly slips away. He is still half-squatting in front of her, leaning down so that he is eye level with her.

"Finnick," she says, however wavering her voice is. "You're Finnick."

"You're Annie," he confirms.

"I know that part," glum tone informs him. Her chest is still unsteady with air. 

Finnick gives too nervous a laugh.

"In the... Capitol," she states. She clears her throat, before looking up.

He nods. 

"I won," she speaks it, and it sounds foreign even to her own ears. Half in awe, she looks down. She sees the cuts and bruises and protruding bones are gone.

 

"You did," Finnick's hands have retreated. He is standing. He now looks as though he does not know what to do with himself. Hands are flexing, seeming to search his pockets. He finds that rope, the tiny little strip. He does not do anything with it, just holds it tightly.

Annie watches his hands. 

The wave on the screen makes too loud a sound, and Finnick, even starts with Annie. He turns and changes the screen to a desert.

Foreign enough, to both of them.

Much less threatening.

"Swimming?" Annie asks, not certain whether Finnick wants to go, still.

Finnick laughs. Their eyes meet, and he raises a brow.

"You want to..." Annie trails, before shrugging.

"It is our night off," he says, with a wink and crooked grin.

Annie shrugs, looking back at her own hands. She fiddles with the hemming of her trousers, before pausing herself. She sits up, more straight, and looks over at the swimsuit Finnick must have thrown to the side when he entered the room. 

"Swimming," she says, firmly.

Finnick does not make a move, watching her closely. She shifts, uncomfortable under his gaze, before shrugging.

"You're sure?" he asks, concern tinging his tone.

Annie nods, though she is about as far offshore from sure as can be. 

"All right, then," Finnick holds out the rope to her. "You're sure?"

The repetition makes her cringe, as she takes the rope and plays with it.

"Finnick."

"Annie."

She gives him a wary look, only to receive a grin. She gives a half-smile. 

"Please," she whispers.

_(Please don't make me explain,_

_please don't second-guess me_

_I'll stop myself, when I know it will make you happy_

_I'll disappoint you, and I don't want that.)_

"All right."

Finnick fetches his swimming trunks, making a quick job of changing in the toilet. When Annie closes herself inside, changing into her own swimsuit after him, she pointedly ignores all of the bottles and pills and colorful  _things_ on his countertop.

_(If you wanted something to sedate you, you can just take my medicine for me.)_

He knocks on the door, as if afraid of what she is doing inside.

He seems a bit too relieved to see her in her swimsuit, when she emerges. 

 

* * *

 

 

The scent hits her like a sack of bricks. A hand brushes her elbow, and Finnick gives her a toothy smile. She looks down, counting the tiles. It is... relaxing. Funny, considering what had happened only a half-hour earlier. 

It is around the corner, this 'Aquatic Centre,' but completely empty. Finnick has checked them in, at the front desk; bereft of people, he signed himself in as 'Stinky Jellyman Plus-One.' Annie frets, that they will get in trouble. Though she has said nothing aloud, he told her in a reassuring tone, that no one will mind; that these Centres are usually for show, more than anything else.

It is showy. Every surface boats the most beautifully polished jade-coloured tiling she has ever seen.

Annie had not realized the hour, until the clock in the car that drove them read 03:45:52. She had wondered, why no one had stopped them as they exited the Training Center, but it is almost four in the morning. She assumes most of the guards for the building are off-duty.

Finnick says this is normally his going-out time, but Annie has some difficulty believing that. 

Finnick Odair is difficult to read, even when she knows he (typically) has no reasons to lie to her.

He splashes in, clothing and all. 

Annie sets herself, cross-legged on the side of the pool. She watches Finnick cut through the water, like a jagged knife. He is lapping in rectangles along the pool's perimeter. She loses count, how many he is up to. He swims faster than Annie could, in sprints. Long-distance was her strength

Endurance.

_(I didn't win by accident.)_

A shiver, and Annie's arms curl around her stomach. She finds a foreign smile on her lips, as Finnick emerges from the water just a few feet from her.

"Odair, you are," she teases softly.

"Of Cresta," he replies, treading water as he wipes his eyes clear.

Even soaking wet, and more-than-half-under, he looks beautiful. Well, except for the mess of bronzed-red that his long-ish hair has become.

She reaches across the water, to brush his sopping-wet hair back from his face. He promptly buries his face in the water, popping up to spout water at her shoulder.

Annie shrieks, but it turns into a laugh quickly enough. 

She is wearing a swimsuit, after all. 

Finnick throws his arms opened, water splashing everywhere as his legs continue to tread. That thousand-diamond sheen of white flashes at her.

"Give me a hug, won't you?" he waggles his brows. 

Annie shakes her head.

Finnick pouts. He throws himself back, backstroking a few feet away, watching her. 

Annie dips a toe in the water, sighing at the difference in feeling; chlorine gives a certain texture to the water, different from home, but also from the Arena. It is also heated. It feels like bathwater. Annie does not know what to make of that.

Finnick dives, and she watches his shadows streak as he comes back towards her. He emerges suddenly, right in front of her. Despite having followed him with her eyes, Annie still jumps a bit.

Tanned arms rest on the edge of the pool, rubbing water from his eyes. The bright green penetrates. He grins at her, again.

"Still no?" he asks.

Annie shakes her head. 

He nods, smile seeming... sad. 

Sad translates into a million different words, in Annie's head, and she feels a certain level of embarrassment. 

As if his smile has mocked her.

_(It's not mocking, silly, I'm being silly; Finnick wouldn't mock me.)_

 

He dives under, and again, Annie watches him. 

She curls her knees to her chest, resting her cheek to her kneecap.

A small smile still finds its way to her lips.

 _Maybe next time,_ she muses.  _Maybe when we're home._

There is a sting of longing that hits her, in the pit of her stomach, with a certain odd dread.

Because home seems forever and a day away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyouforreading comments/crit./etc. are always appreciated.  
> (also I wanted some fluff because I realize this story is a little sad and brutal-ish.) <3


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty boy, she thinks. But he looks so sad, and little.  
> Broken little pretty boy.
> 
> (or, their time at the Capitol comes to an end. sort of.)

Party. It’s funny, because parties are meant to be fun, and perhaps this is for some people. Mostly it’s a blur and multicolored.

_Sicksicksick._

They look like flamingos, or the tropical birds that live in the inland heart past Pesca.

Isn’t meant to know those things are there, but what else do sixteen-year-olds do during the summer holidays?

_(It’s not really a secret; Papa was on a crew that went inland to harvest Four’s rare breed of trees._

_He just would’ve gotten shot if he said it in public.)_

Annie presses herself against a ribbed column, hand reaching behind her to grip it, know it’s solid.

 _Deep breaths,_ she tells herself.

The numbness should fade, eventually, and maybe she'll be able to feel her feet after, walk like a normal person.

One alligator, two shelling shacks.

_Five, ten, fifteen, thirty._

_The wave crashes windows, starts to invade and chomp. Bodies scream, drowning, tables shattered and turned to dangerous, dangerous---_

No, blink, stop, concentrate, breathe.

Annie clears her throat, tries to reassure herself. A hand is on her throat, slowly sliding around to the back of her neck.

She waits for the spray of blood to gush for air to become impossible for the dark dark chasm. Instead it's lips suffocating, rather than death.

He doesn't want to take her home, didn't want to come with her back _there,_ either.

She wishes they had the choices but she supposes she doesn't quite have the right money.

She has blood money.

Apparently the Capitol, even, values it less that they're nice crisp clean money they make for themselves.

_('Do you know what a conundrum is, Miss Cresta?' the whiskers tweaked against his fingers._

_Pretty Boy fidgeted at her side._

_She started laughing, because what sort of question is that?_

_She never did get the full definition.)_

She stands against the columns, watches the pretty lights in the chandelier sparkle.

Cold replaces hot, clammy touch.

The lights begin a show, dance and become more prominent as torches in this hall grow to dim glimmers. The lights are flittering, flying, and there are applause, she knows she is giving some, too. Apparently she can't control her hands.

She wonders if that's what the medicine did; take over the body and let the mind feel as trapped and manipulated as can be.

_Clever, clever, clever._

_Cleaver._

_(Ew.)_

She's still staring at the show of glittery interior stars when someone says her name. Head lolls to one side. Eyes have trouble focusing. When she laughed _and laughed and laughed_ earlier, Doctor Something-face stuck her with something. Called it her _medicine_ but it's fuzzier like what they give when they want her to lay back, _lay still._ The Pretty Boy had to stay there, longer. Didn't say goodbye. She wonders if she ought to be offended. She's not.

She wishes she knew why or why not, but maybe there isn't really any reason.

When she next saw him he looked so _happysparklyplasticine_ that Pretty Boy's _(FinnickFinnickFinnick's!)_  conversation must have ended better than her own.

Annie has an escort _(hah! he doesn't still have that funkily cut do to his hair, isn't it funny how different your hair makes you?)_ who's tugging her to a dark, quiet apse behind the colonnade _(big word for an air-stuffed head)._

Pretty Boy is hushing her and she realizes she is laughing. Hand covers tittering lips and she tries to stop it, looks around to see that no one is around to see.

 _"Padon,"_ she says, slowly swallowing the laugh in a breath that is catching in her throat. 

A glass of water, proffered, makes her start, and she is backing up against a wall. From the gasping that carries, echoing in the hallowed high ceilings of the large festivity's setting, there must have been something beautiful and awe-inspiring projected as part of the show. Instead, though, of seeing it, Annie follows the white columns as far as she can, before they are shadowed, the ceiling beyond her sight in the dark cavern.

"When the show's over, go to the foyer," he says. His voice is monotone, so that it is hard for her to piece together, initially.

Annie stares, before she frowns.

"You're done," his voice matches his face; bereft of emotion, a mask of flesh and tanning-bed-gloss. 

The words are swimming around her head, and the fuzzy edges are still there, off to the left and right and up and down  _north and south and all about._

"Home?" Annie asks, but more so _remembers_. Fingers reach up to touch her own lips. She's not sure if she's said them aloud. The numbness is lingering, disorienting.

He nods and she knows that she has.

She's glad she doesn't have to ask, but almost wonders if he isn't as 'mad' as she is, that he understands.

Their train is sometime somewhere somehow, but the specifics elude her. 

"Morning," she nods slowly, mostly to herself. But he nods again, too, and she can't help but watch him.

Because he's watching her.

It's confusing.

And then the idea sinks in, that  _she_ is done.

 _She,_ not  _us._

"But, you-"

Pretty Boy shakes his head, pulls away. 

Doesn't say anything else, but she wants him to. 

She wants to understand.

Instead, though, Finnick slips back to the other side of the columnar barrier.

And Annie gets to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_Thump._

 

Head shifts. A mumble breaks out of her throat. She cringes.

_Thump._

Hands grip at soft, fluffy,  _thing_ , tugs over ears covers blocks.

Black starts to descend again. The pastel of dreams slowly playing out against her lids.

But suddenly there is a  _thumpthumpthump_ and  _crash_ and the sound of shattering glass shocks her up.

Annie throws the blankets and pillow off of herself, before she is running to the sounds.

The crashes continue, coming from the bathroom. Bare feet slap against the transition from carpet to tile, but she freezes when she sees the shards of brown and clear and blue littering the floor. Bottles and pills, formerly littering the counter, now lay strewn about, amongst the glass. 

"Finnick?" she tries to keep herself steady, but the fear is slowly creeping, until her eyes rove the room.

The trickle of water draws her sight to the shower, and she freezes, wide-eyed.

He's slumped against the wall, half-in the shower, half-out. His eyes are dilated, and bloodshot, and stare vacantly at the water as it falls on him. He's sopping wet, naked. Shaking, uncontrollably.

Annie squeezes her eyes shut, before looking again.

The image isn't going away.

Swallows over a lump in her throat, hand gripping at the doorframe as she tries to see a path to him. She presses weight onto her toes, a dance of movement, quick, and precise. Toes find tile between the glass. It'd be a lark, a game, even, if she weren't afraid of slicing her toes, or leaving Finnick--

_Finnick._

She grabs a towel from the rack outside the shower. When she finally gets to him, he is motionless. He doesn't even look at her, as she puts a towel over him, tries to guide the rest of him- right foot and arm- from the scented deluge.

He is a mix of musk and sweat, but the rosewater penetrates. Annie pulls back, tries to hold her breath. He's wet like he was _there_ and it hurts because it's loosening her tether to her purpose. When she's regained herself enough, she kneels down, grateful that the glass is outside the tub of the shower. She carefully keeps herself from the flow of scented water, taking an edge of the towel to dab at his droplet-covered face. He does nothing to this, and she slowly dabs at his temples, ears. She moves to his chin, carefully wiping at his jaw before heading to his throat--

and a hand grabs hers. Green eyes are dilated, fearful. Tanned hand is shaky.

Annie's senses heighten, skin prickling and the adrenaline beginning the unintended conversation.

Fight or flight.

Which will it be, Annie?

The voice is mocking, but the only sound that's real (at least, is coming from outside her own head) is the slapping of the water against tile.

Annie pulls her hand away, but he's watching her, not with concern, but borderline terror.

She swallows, again, tries to control her limbs.

Tries to keep herself from giving in to the shadows, telling her to leave him, hide from him.

 _Not the arena, not the arena,_ she tells herself, and nods, backs away from him. She turns to the shower buttons, tries to remember which one turns the heat on.

_Third from the left, and colored orange._

 

She presses it. The water stops.

(Relief floods her veins like a sedative)

The heat slowly wafts up. The tiles themselves are gradually warming. Vents open up, kiss their skins with soft breath.

She takes a second, closes eyes and allows the comfort in. 

A shift in air sets her on edge, again, and she spins around, nearly slips on the slick stones.

Finnick looks just as disoriented, his head wobbling on his neck as thick hands try to steady himself.

And Annie begins to understand. 

He's trying to keep control of himself. That's why he's trying to stand (silly boy), and why he's flinching at her offer of assistance. 

"Don't," a throat as raw as the shattered glass sends a chill down her spine.

She doesn't move, watching him with the uncertainty of being either prey or predator _(or does he see me as both?)._

"Don't," he repeats, voice fraying until it sounds more like a question than command.

The towel is on the floor. His whole body is covered in prickles, and Annie tries to hold it out, tries to cover him.

He needs it, she thinks. But he won't let her.

He nearly stomps on the glass, but she holds him back, lets his weight sink against her. An anchor against a little windsock, and they barely sink back to the original location.

Short of the glass minefield, though. The tension still keeps his shoulders together, keeps him from letting her comfort him.

"Stay still," she whispers, tries to keep there so that he doesn't try to repeat the near-miss. "It's okay, Finnick, stay still."

He's shaking his head, but his body isn't showing the same form of resistance. 

"Stay, I..." Annie trails off, tightens the towel around his shoulders.

"Please, don't," she thinks he says.

It's almost more to himself than anything else.

She pulls away, watches him as he visibly tries to catch his breath. His hands are shaking, eyes searching the room with confusion. Annie hesitates, before shredding the lower portion of the towel with substantial effort. She holds it out, and is surprised when he takes it, timidly. 

_Tether._

_Tether for Finnick._

Different from Annie's tethers, though, she could see why it helps. Like with the little rope-piece, he just grips it, tightly; doesn't do anything with it, just yet. 

 _Pretty boy,_ she thinks. But he looks so sad, and little.

_Broken little pretty boy._

Annie's hand reaches up, setting on his forehead hesitantly. His eyes snap to her, initial fear giving way to confusion before the slightest flicker of relief seeps in. She slowly brushes his hair back, the water still soaking his hair, so that it escapes, running down his face. He flinches, but does not stop her. 

They sit that way, for a long while. They can't see the sun rising outside, the way it slices through the streets of the Capitol at odd angles. 

A little alarm clock on the nightstand outside signals that they need to get ready for the train.

"What were you trying to do?" she whispers, when he has calmed, and they have breakfast in their stomachs.

"I don't know," he replies, flatly.

She's quite certain that is a lie, but does not push him.

Finnick tells her, in a scratchy voice, that he has a story written.

He has lines as to what Annie can and cannot say that they've done, in the Capitol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for reading! and for being patient with me, it's holiday time and I'm job-hunting and just yeah. hopefully you enjoyed this? maybe?  
> any comments/crit/etc. are always appreciated, and I hope everyone has a healthy & safe time this week, whether or not you're celebratinggg <3


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She repeats her herself: Stop, calm, not a threat.  
> Stop, calm, not in trouble, not in danger.  
> Home, home, home.  
> (but she doesn't feel home, really, and that's the problem.)
> 
> [Or, mind and home don't reside in the same place.]

The metal doors close them in, the flashes and calls of _fans_  abruptly ending.

Annie stares at the reflective sheen of metal. Eyes blink but all she sees are the faint lines in the craftsmanship, the subtlest of patterns left from their buffing and bolting. She shifts her gaze only when the light screech of metal, and gentlest tug of inertia, signals that the train is leaving the station. 

Finnick, like her, seems rooted to his spot. His bravado and cavalier smirk have been turned off in the absence of the cameras, and his back has slumped against the wall next to her. Annie stares for a minute, blinking again and trying to remember which door leads to food.

It is a fifty-fifty chance, after all.

_Crap-shoot._

Odds are good that, whichever door she chooses, it will be about as luxurious as the Center in which they have been _(not imprisoned, don't say that word)_ staying.

_The odds are even better that it won't be any more pleasant than the other times she has been on this train._

Her fingers link around Finnick's wrist, gentle and cautious. When he does not pull away, she moves forward. His arm stretches out, though his body remains immobile. She pauses, waits for him to follow. He does, after a moment, but eyes stare blankly ahead as they move to the next car over. Luck (or something) has it in their favor that it is the opulent dining car.

Annie sets herself at one of the seats with a table, preset for luncheon. Finnick pulls himself out of her grasp, settling across the table. Annie pours him a glass of water, sliding it in front of him. She does not know the last time she ate, herself, and trying to guess when Finnick has is just as elusive. 

She thinks she had breakfast. Just not sure if it was this morning. Big blur, hard to think.

Days and hours and weeks and month?

_Month._

Maybe a month.

_Maybe more?_

She cannot quite form a distinctive timeline from today and then and tomorrow and last year.

No injections, though. Things are less the fuzzy for it. Some things, that is.

They are silent, gnawing on rolls and pastries. Knife is avoided  _(_ _don't want it to get on my food, all that blood will contaminate you),_ and the most Finnick says in a half-hour is that it's not a knife, it is a 'butter-spreaderer.' Annie stares at the object, slick metal with toothy edge. Memory comes, a funny one. She starts to laugh, because that is what he had said in the same _place_ same _thing_ same _conversation_  same _conversationalists_ and are they going backwards?

A cup gets slid to her, now, and she gives a shy smile. The steam whispers up to her, and she is grateful from the scent that it is tea, and not coffee.

 _"Mèsi,"_ she offers.

"Of course," is the reply. "Coffee's sort of crap for you."

Annie nods, holding the cup without drinking it.

Finnick clears his throat, and she glances up, meets green eyes with green eyes _(different shades, silly, not a mirror)._ She tilts her head, before glancing down and seeing the cue cards in his hands. Little things, paper with lines and _that's not handwriting, so it's typed, why is it typed? Who typed it?_

"We've got certain things we have to say," his voice is even, and in a moment he is flashing her a smile, but the eyes are dull and the lips seem to _crack crack crack_ until it is too fake for her to smile back. "They've been approved, so we have to say them just right."

"Last time?" she asks. She feels funny, because she nods despite her own question.

He nods back _(thankyouthankyouthankyou, humoring me, isn't he lovely?)_ , before going through and sliding a few in her direction.

"Those ones are for you," he explains. The majority of cards stay in his hands. 

Annie takes them, gingerly, as if they might burn her or infect or--

Or--

_No._

She freezes, eyes scanning the print.

_Not the right order._

The words are not making sense.

A's come after Q's and E's after I's.

She starts to organize them so that they make more sense.

_But they'll need to be cut up because the words are out of alphabetical like the utensils get and the table-settings--_

"Stop. Annie-"

"I have to fix it."

"No, you don't."

Fingers brush against her knuckles. Warm, so warm against the quivering cold.

"You don't. Let me have those, okay?"

She stares because she  _has to fix it._ It's too daunting if it's not organized first. And  _h_ _ow is she supposed to make sense of the words when they're not spelled or organized or--?_

"Annie," the voice is more firm. The hand is trying to pry her fingers from their iron grasp on thick paper.

She stops herself. Or, tries. 

She picks a spot, starts to stare it into submission, and tries to keep her mind from straying. He has taken the cards out of her hands, replaced the barren palms with his own hand, squeezing it without crushing or hurting. She squeezes back, slightly, and he starts to read things aloud.

"I am Annie Cresta," he pauses, dramatically, before drumming his fingers on the back of the hand he is holding.

She glances to him, to find him giving her a teasing smile. Annie cannot help but roll her eyes, and looks back down.

"I am Annie Cresta..."

"The Victor of the Seventieth Hunger Games, home again in District Four."

"Home again..." she swallows, before repeating it in full. "In District Four."

He gives her a small smile. She hunches her shoulders slightly, watches his hand holding hers. 

Fingers curl, more secured in their catch, to be sure it is not just in her mind.

_(What she can touch is different than what touches her.)_

"We are indebted to the Capitol's generous donations," he reads. A thumb taps on her skin, and she meets his eyes again. "For all it will provide us during our trial of reconstruction."

"We're indebted..." she begins. "To... the Capitol--"

She chokes on that, a bit. Swallows heavily, and has to watch his hands because she feels herself slipping. She feels her eyes prickling, tries to blink it away. He nods encouragingly, wielding a false smile that she tries to believe, despite herself.

"For all it will provide us during our trial of reconstruction."

"Good," Finnick nods. "You remember all that?"

Annie nods.

Everyone's nodding. 

All _nods,_ and no _no'_ s.

Annie has to shake off the buzzing shadows in her head.

_(Shaking head instead of nodding, Annie? That won't do, darling.)_

"Let's start from the top."

"I am Annie Cresta, Victor of the Seventieth Hunger Games..."

It is a long train ride.

But he lets her stay in his room here, too.

 

* * *

 

 

What had been hot air has cooled, since last they were her. The winds are stronger, attuned to the season. Salt spray permeates the air, and the blue skies of summertime have turned for grey, for their return. The Justice Building's front steps are set up, equipped with microphone and colorful District banners. The cameras, mechanical and circling, have been put in place. No escort, no stylist, just the cameras and the Mayor and Finnick and crowds. 

Like Reaping Day, but colder and more beat up and the crowds watch her with expressions that are not so mournful.

It might be gratitude, or it might be disgust. She keeps closer and closer to Finnick, until she's right up against him. He does not look at her. She does not look at the crowd, either, so it is fine.

Annie has to  _speak and speak and speak_  (it feels), before the cameras and the staring and the crowds let them go. A hand links hers, interlaces fingers, and she lets herself be led. Eyes keep to the cobblestone, inlaid with sand, and struggle to pretend the body heat (intermittent with chilly gales) is in her head, not stemming from  _all of the people surrounding encasing like a tomb--_

The hand that holds her tugs her closer, makes sure she is next to the warm, tan body that cuts their way through the crowd.

Her name is yelled out, somewhere. She dares to look up in time to see arms wrap engulfing her. Face is mashed up against itchy, wool cloth, and the reek of fish makes her head dizzy--

_Dizzy sick sick sick **sick--**_

And, immediately, she panics. 

(Holding and clamping and cupping and feeling and  _stay still, now, this won't hurt.)_

Chest and hands begin to clamp up, sweat under arms and at the back of her neck. She begins retreating, but only in her head; paralyzing fear argues with adrenaline-filling limbs and veins, leaving her prone and lone and standing there, uncertain of ups and downs and east and west. Hysteria cripples her, but silent, this time, so that hands, shaking, ball her trousers in her sweaty palms.

_I'm a piece of magnet, and you're a piece of--_

_No, that's not right._

_One, two, eighteen, twelve?_

_No, no, **no.**_

_If she's not counting right, she's not thinking, right, either, so she can't know what's really there._

"Annie!" the voice breaks, calling out.

She knows it is familiar. Tries to cut through the frozen statue her body has formed without her consent.

Eyes cannot look up, but the hand that was steadying has released its comforting link, and now she feels the tears threatening to brim out like biting little javellins.

"Annie, it's me," the voice softens, thick hands, not tan but lighter, and worn from the wind and sea, hold her shoulders tightly. "It's Bo."

"Bo," she repeats, slowly letting the recognition in with all the other overwhelming emotions. But when the thick arms wrap around her, again holding her in a tight embrace, her body goes rigid. Sea-green eyes close, as her mind slips and struggles.

Cheap slippers on slick rock.

"What the hell happened?!" Aslin's voice is exclaiming.

Annie head jerks up, seeing she's under Aslin's arm, now, and the accusatory tone is being directed towards Finnick Odair. 

"We could  _hardly_ be treated correctly here," Finnick chuckles, giving Annie a look that she supposes is meant to be conspiratorial or something.

Aslin's jaw tightens. Annie feels a strange surge in her chest, suffocating in frustration and fear and confusion. Bo and Aslin are looking at her, now.

"Why did they keep you there?" Aslin demands, her eyes filled with worry, and her grip on Annie's shoulder pulling her tighter up against her side.

Annie feels the walls closing in, eyes and ears peering like the dead boy's death-gripped expression; contorted in excruciating agony.

"They didn't  _keep_ us," Finnick scoffs. "They treated us the way we're-"

"Shut up," Aslin snaps, turning back to Annie. "They didn't even tell us they'd moved you until a week had passed, I thought..."

"We didn't know what had happened," Bo contributes quietly.

Annie's shoulders rise, and eyes are fogging with tears because the shadows are coming, and the words that ache to be released are death sentences for everyone.

"What did they do, Sissy?"

"Nothing-"

"Don't lie, that interview you gave, you-"

"Az," Bo interjects, tone sharp.

Aslin gives Annie's brother a look, before turning back to Finnick. "And  _you."_

"Me?" Finnick raises a brow, clapping a hand over his chest in mock offense.

"Yeah,  _you._ If you so much as touched her, I swear-"

"He wasn't..." Annie throws the words out, but cannot complete the sentence. They all begin to look at her again and she has trouble keeping her chest from flailing. 

"Sweetheart, I was just helping Annie get better."

"Helping?!"

"Sissy, _tanpri?"_ Annie tries not to whimper, but it is awfully tempting. 

"Fine." Aslin gives Finnick a pointed look. "Balls as a necklace, _sonje?"_

Finnick gives a crooked grin, but Annie sees the spark in his eye is lacking. He is acting, again. "Picturing my balls again, Miss Sibb?"

"Fuck off," Sissy spits, and jerks Annie's shoulder, leading her away. "Let's get you home."

Annie gulps, looks over her shoulder and seeing Finnick is watching her go. She sees Mags put a hand on his back, and there is a mild reassurance that Finnick will not be by himself.

Annie turns her head, to face in the direction they are heading.

The District has brand new construction in some areas of Town. Glass panels, freshly installed, still retain paper coverings for protection, as exteriors are in the process of being replaced or repainted.

But the thing that surprises Annie, is that they are on the half-hour trek through Town and Waterside, to Pesca. Pesca, and not Victor's Village.

"Home?" she asks quietly.

"Not built yet," Aslin sighs. "And they won't let us live there, once it's been finished."

Annie blinks, looking from Aslin to Bo. "What?"

"They waited to reconstruct your house, Annie," Bo begins, but pauses in hesitation. "Foundation's poured, that's it. But it's going to be a one-bedroom. They said the location was overbuilt before."

Annie stares, surprised that her feet can keep moving. 

"Me  _pa konprann,"_ she whispers. 

Her brother and (almost-)sister-in-law do not respond.

"Bo, I...?"

"They said your construction fees haven't been paid," Bo says, voice oddly neutral. "We can always still come over, when it's done, but... we won't be allowed to live there."

"Bo makes too much money," Aslin tacks on, audibly angry. "They're saying we're not entitled because we're not dependents, and since Papa died, you're not legally ours."

 _Because my legal guardian is Coriolanus Snow,_ Annie tries to manage the shaking, but Aslin and Bo still pick up on it. They gently talk about other things; Annie's childhood friends, Bo's bosses' newborn son.

One of Annie's best friends, Manny, got his younger sister into the Career Center. 

Orin Kennerik down at the docks caught a shark in Waterside Bay. Then, apparently, Kennerick got whipped because he had not paid to keep the catch himself.

The panic remains in her chest, keeps shaking her hands. She tries to pretend that she is  _not a Victor, not a Victor, just a girl walking home with her family._ They are quiet for a long time.

"I don't... _poukisa nou pa ka w'ap viv avè_ me?" it is then that Annie looks up, sees more Peacekeepers in Pesca's market than she ever has before.

"Because they say so," Aslin's tone is bitter. "And they're trying to crack down on a lot of lower-level 'disobedience' or whatever."

One Peacekeeper is keeping an eye, intently, upon Annie, and instinctively, she tenses, looks down at her feet. Annie shies her gaze from looking about, in order to avoid meeting eyes with anyone else. Bo and Aslin frame the seventeen-year-old, Aslin's grip tightening anytime any large groups pass. That is mainly because of how Annie tenses with each person who either looks at them, or greets them just a touch louder than desired. 

Seagulls are picking off the scraps from outside from of the bakeries and cookeries. Gulls travel inland for miles, if they can find food, and Annie grew up knowing to tie the dumpsters tight on a Sunday night, if you wanted to be sure the waste-workers could actually get your garbage to the inland dumpsite without any trouble. The screeching and cawing, and occasionally abrupt a dive-down like falling shrapnel alarms her. After weeks away from that sort of constant, her brain is struggling to readjust.

She repeats her herself:  _Stop, calm, not a threat._

_Stop, calm, not in trouble, not in danger._

_Home, home, home._

( _but she doesn't feel home, really, and that's the problem.)_

The main road through Pesca is narrow, and cramped; lined on either side by Pesca shops and flat-houses, the crowd gathers more, presses Annie's family against her. It is a noisy neighborhood, families' shutters in the tenements above leaning out to slap dust out of carpets, or pour old water into the sewer drains. Yelling kids play stickball in the streets, causing chaos when they weave through. Storefront doors are splayed opened, vendors yelling out sales or new items. Aslin and Bo cut down a familiar side road, lead Annie to the apartment building where their family had lived for years, before Annie's Victory. Aslin's family, or at least her old siblings and mother, live a few buildings over. 

There is a certain scent, not a good one, that wafts up, slapping Annie in the face when the enter the first-floor door. Passing into the dimly lit hallway, the dirty stairs still creak in all the same spots. Annie is surprised that she does not hear the grousing screech, from the landlord's flat under the stairs, about keeping it down. The smell of smoke, the noise of conversations and arguments and singing and crying blow easily through the thin walls and doors of the flats they pass on the way up the stairs. When they reach the top, they go, surprisingly, to the third door on the left- and not the fifth one on the right.

"Our old one's occupied," Bo says, easily. He pops the key in the flimsy lock, one that looks about as easy to slip as glass milk cans are to break. 

Annie learned how to crack locks at an early age. Mama had shown her how to jimmy the lock to the floor's boiler room during a particularly cold spell at age six. The landlord never _could_ figure out who was turning his tenant's heating up higher than he personally set it. And none of the other residents were about to complain.

The flat is sparse, at best, and reminds Annie of the one they had left behind months ago- except, of course, that she had at least a few trinkets, from her mother and father. Photographs would have been treasured, but they had never had enough money for that.

The bounty provided by the Capitol due to Annie's Victory had clearly done little for the location, and with the hurricane having destroyed everything, there is nothing they had to bring here. All the have is the former resident's old possessions.

Annie is grateful that they left anything at all. 

There is one mattress with worn bedding; a double bed, it has simple, metal bedposts in the corner. The kitchen has a table with two chairs, and a tiny projection screen is pushed up in the corner, unplugged to conserve electrical costs. There are two lights, one ceiling light, and one standalone lamp next to the bed. 

Annie wants to ask if her brother and 'sister' do not want her to sleep on the floor, but there is a knock on the door before she has the chance.

Her gaggle of friends flood into the flat, and awash with love and gentle hugs, Annie can feel herself relax somewhat. 

But only so much.

 

* * *

 

 

The nightmares come, shadows in the deep of drowned and drowning, of water crushing her, breaking her ribs. She wakes, trying to scratch and scrape the blood from her. 

It coats everything, but warm arms wrap around, soft voice murmuring gently as she slowly comes back to reality. Aslin is rocking her back and forth, holding her in her arms. Annie sobs, the crying slowly turning into another panic attack. 

"Shh, shh," Aslin tries to reassure her, but the shadows come, with it, flailing limbs.

Bo needs to hold her back, restrain his little sister. Eventually, eventually, Annie's mind begins to settle, the shaking subsides, and she stares at a spot on the blanket long enough to feel herself sitting on it.

She tells herself over and over, that she is home, that she is safe. 

But it does not seem real.

Safety is superficial.

Aslin boils some water, sits with Annie and talks to her, quietly, as the night drags on. Sissy persuades her to lay down, to close her eyes. 

Words drift in, Aslin's voice speaking, trying to be quiet; but she is upset.

 _I did that,_ Annie thinks.  _I don't belong here, I'm upsetting her._

All she can think, is how much she wants to go home. She is not thinking of the house in Victor's Village. Nor is she thinking of an apartment with Bo and Aslin; nor even one with Mama and Papa.

Annie does not know where she is thinking of.

All she knows, is that this is not it.

Darkness lulls her into a dream, one with sand and shore and surf. It is troubled by the sound of the waking bell, in Town; by the shift in the bed as Bo gets ready for work, and Aslin, when she stirs about an hour later, to go to the Town fish market. 

Annie lays in bed for a time, looking at the fogged window a few paces away. Aslin returns after about two hours. Storing the fish in the icebox, she is gentle when she shakes Annie's shoulder.

 _"Ou pa ap reveye?"_ Sissy asks, with a small smile. 

Annie never has been an early riser. Well, unless you count waking in the middle of the night. As a whole, she has always preferred to sleep in. Not having school or training or work to go to had meant she could indulge this every day. It also meant she could leave the house and sit in the backyard and not have to walk through or around or past _people_ all that much. 

Granted, taking a walk still involved that, there, but now, it is...  _different_. 

Annie gives a shrug, sitting up and tracing the patterns in the blankets. All she can think is that Bo and Aslin should not have had to get up and take care of her, like she was some little baby again.

 _This isn't the first time I've had nightmares,_ she reminds herself. Daymares, for that matter, were practical constants when she first got home, after her Games. But, still, it just irks her, that they cannot just be them, and her be her. 

 _"Padon, pou yè swa,"_  Annie murmurs, not meeting Aslin's eyes. She feels embarrassed on one hand. That is ridiculous, of course, considering that Aslin had given her the puberty talk, and the kissing talk, and the talk about what happens when people want to have babies. 

_(The sex, though, that had been more of a discussion she had with Mags; Finnick, even, though they never got into detail._

Things Aslin didn't know, and maybe never would.)

Annie squeezes her eyes shut, for a moment, before running her hands through her hair. 

She blinks a few times, before refocusing. 

"Sissy, we don't mind," Aslin says, gently reaching out and rubbing Annie's back.

It is always strange, the gentleness Aslin can offer, where she can be openly hostile to the majority of strangers. She has been such an integral part of Annie's life, ever since Annie was six-and-a-half.

Aslin knows Annie like the back of her own hand.

At least, she had. Before the Games, before the Victory, before... the _people_  Annie had to see.

Now, it just is hard. Because there are things she is terrified about saying, and things she is terrified about doing or going.

Annie takes a deep breath. Aslin sits, in silence, for a time with her. 

"I saw Mags in the market," Sissy begins, tone oddly higher in pitch.

"Oh," Annie fiddles with the blanket, now pulling at a loose strand in the stitchery.

"Annie," Aslin says, voice more firm now. She sighs after a moment, pulling a hand on Annie's knee.  _"Gade_  me? Please?"

Annie hesitates, before flicking her eyes up.

"Mags asked if you'd come for dinner, tomorrow night. She said you can come over anything, really..." 

Annie blinks, mainly because it sounds as if there is more to be said.

"She also wondered, if you'd... well, she's wondering if you want to move in with her."

Annie shakes her head, looking down again.

"It's just while the house is being rebuilt," Aslin continues, more quiet now; more timid, almost. "So you can, you know... be there. For the house, to see what they're doing."

Annie takes the words in, tries to let them translate in her head, but she is gulping and finding it hard to concentrate, based on her interpretation...

"You'd be helping her out, you know. She doesn't have anyone except  _Finnick,_ and she could use a second set of hands."

Because it sounds as if, maybe, Aslin does not want her here.

"Okay," Annie manages to mouth, but nothing comes out. She clears her throat, repeats it more clearly.

"Annie-"

Instead of listening, she slides herself out of the bed and pads across the floor.

Pouring a glass of water (funky tasting, funky smelling, but better than nothing, and she's survived years of this stuff anyway), she hears the cranky bedsprings groan as Aslin stands up, comes over to her.

"Tell me what's going on," Aslin murmurs.

Annie shakes her head, not sure other than the distinctive sting of abandonment and loss and fear and crippling creeping--

Glass shatters and she starts, pulling back and covering her ears before the water can begin to flow, before the hands can reach out and grab her and take her  _down down down the chasm with the black shadows._

 

Someone is hugging her, speaking words that are not making any sense because words are weapons and weapons are bloody and there is already too much blood on her hands.

As soon as she can pull herself together (or, rather, Aslin can put her together as best as can be), they begin the trudge to Victor's Village.

The sky spits on them halfway there.

And Annie shows up not remembering where they are.

Mags welcomes her by giving her some sleep serum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy belated new year!! hope you all are good! and hopefully this is okay, if not any comments/crit. are appreciated! <3


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because, as Mags said, no good comes from knowing a Victor.  
> (or being one, for that matter.)

Lips press, loosen, press, loosen; once, twice, _oncetwicethrice_. As she slowly lets them part she feels a dried piece stick between. Sandy fingers reach up, touch before they begin to pick at the dead thing. 

Shark, shark, shark needs a toothbrush. She supposes that makes her a shark.

It is not like a normal girl drowns kids as she is trying to stay afloat herself.

_(But there's the point, precisely: I'm not normal.)_

Sand grits get in her teeth, but Annie does not mine.

Everyone already thinks she is mad, so what does it matter if she is seen eating sand?

_(If Aslin sees that-- but, no, Aslin doesn't want to bother, that's why one week, and I got put here, and one week later, I'm sitting by myself, in the sand, picking at my lips.)_

Mags had suggested that Annie go for a walk, but Annie did not want to go outside of Mags' property, never mind out of Victor's Village. A minor disappointment, it seemed, to the older woman, but she said she would have tea waiting for Annie if the seventeen-year-old as long as she at least spent  _some_ time in the fresh air.

The breeze is chilly, this early in the morning, but the calm of the ebbing and flowing tide, heralding the taste of salt in the air. It keeps her here, mostly. Is not _so_ frightening, because at the least she has the touch and smell to cling to. She can _feel_ it, for herself. It makes a world of difference.

 _Here_ feels more close to where she wants to be.

But it is still not _home,_ and she does not know what to do with the gaping hole filling a void in her heart. 

Finally, the wind becomes too much, and she can see the waves beginning to become choppy. Brain begins to play tricks, see a giant swell, _seething with refuse from the trees and damn and cornucopia--_

She is running before she realizes, blood pounds in ears as instinct, that terrible instinct, instigates flight. She nearly slams into a garden wall, clamoring over it before throwing herself down, covering her ears and pressing herself to the ground. She can barely block out the roar of the encapsulating tide, _the rush of force as freshwater crushes her, drowns her--_

But, suddenly, a shake to the shoulder. Her mouth opens, screams emanating louder than water-logged lungs out to be able to do.

"Annie!" a deep voice calls out.

 _Pad-hiss_ , _pad-hiss_ sounds out as feet run in her direction. Annie immediately tenses.

Warm touch, not the clammy hands of the swell nor the death-grip of death-locked corpses with not-yet-dead-hearts, warm touch is on her shoulders, pulling her up. Rubbing up and down against cold, pinpricked skin so that the contrast breeds a sharp inhale from discomfort (or pain).

"Hey, hey, what are you doing here?"

Eyes blink, stare into focus the grey, knit sweater, the darker, tanned skin.

"Annie?"

The name is in here- the name for the man. But it is lost in the disorientation.

"Not..." she shakily struggles over the words. "Flooding?"

Adrenaline is still coursing through veins, body tilting forward, then back.

"No flooding," the man confirms. "No waves came up this far."

The touch reaches up, brushes her hair back from her face before the hands pull away. Annie had not quite wanted the safety of her hair-curtain to be gone, but there it is. She does not dare look up, but does not dare move her gaze, either. She studies the steadying hand the man places on the ground between them. He is kneeling, watching her carefully.

"Not the Games?" she asks, tone more beseeching than it out to be.

_(Big baby, aren't you? Can't ask a question without sounding like a child.)_

"No, your Games are done."

"I won?" 

"You survived."

_Yes, good._

That is a better way to put it, because this certainly does not feel like a Victory.

Her eyes are blinking and she touches the hand resting on the ground, next to her. A light touch, barely noticeable, except he does notice. Flinches, slight as can be.

"You're real?" she asks, and only clamps a hand over her mouth for sake of embarrassment, realizing how pathetic that sounded.

"I'm real," the man replies, holding out a hand. She takes it, gingerly, and he shakes it slowly, as if in greeting. "See?"

Annie nods, shifting her hand so that it is not quite so awkward for him to hold.

"Finnick," she states, the name finally coming back with a rush of  _things_ and  _places_ and--

"Annie," he replies, leaning over slightly more, so that she can see his face. He crosses his eyes and makes a fishy-face, and Annie's laugh forms the _tut-tut-tut_ that Manny and Fabi used to mock her for in school.

_"That can't be your real laugh!" Fabi had snorted from laughing so hard._

_"Fèmen bouch!" Annie had whined in response._

"What else?" he asks, and it takes her a moment to understand.

"Winter?"

"Mhm," he hums slightly.

Annie squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, before it comes back in full force. 

"Games...?"

"Not yet."

She tries to curl in on herself, but half curls up against him, too.

The warmth from him draws her, the cold air shoving her to him _like the tide would have lodged metal bolts to her chest if she hadn't outswam them._

"I was screaming."

Chills shake her body. 

"I was screaming, they wouldn't let me--"

"Shh," he murmurs, barely audible across the inches  _(or is it feet?)_ between them. "You weren't screaming."

"I was. I was, I..."

He is rubbing his hands up and down her arms again. A strange tightness and wetness between her legs that makes her whimper. 

 _(Cause whimpering's better than crying, right?_ the shadows mock.)

"Shh, it's all right."

He is helping her to her feet, keeping an arm around her shoulders as they walk through the grassy 'garden' (of sorts) towards the house.

Annie stops short, looking at the long grasses, the sparse little saltwater plants or bushes. 

"This is your house."

Finnick does not say anything at first. "Well, yeah."

She meets his eyes, and she sees confusion.

"You have a garden," she tries to clarify, but realizes that probably does nothing except perplex him further.

Finnick shrugs. He motions towards the picket fence that marks the side entry to the otherwise stone-walled garden. The plants, if they could be called as such, all look withered, half-eaten by the salty air so that few branches actually remain green; most of the plants are brown.

"Finnick, I think your garden's dead," Annie murmurs. 

To her surprise, Finnick laughs. It is booming and, with her shoulder half-against him, she can feel it move his lungs against her skin. Again the tightness forms and a surge in her chest starts, unsettling her. 

The wind plays a tune against Annie's red locks, and when they get to Mags' back porch, the older woman collects Annie in between her arms with palpable affection. 

Annie is grateful for Mags' tendency to overheat her house.

 

* * *

 

 

The calendar above the kitchen table is mocking her.

Mags has the date circled in red ink. No notations, just a circle, but between the color and the very date itself, the calendar is mocking her. Annie does not appreciate it one bit.

The slight drag of Mags' feet sounds behind her, and Annie looks down at her chilled chowder with uncertainty.

It is not that she does not want to eat; just that she does not have an appetite. 

Mags, however, accepts neither and says Annie needs to eat. 

"You come?" Mags asks.

Annie glances up, and sees the older woman pulling on a light jacket. 

"Come to market?"

The idea of Town's fish market comes fast and hard- as threat, now, not just theoretical suggestion. Annie looks to her chowder, focuses on each individual glint which light gives off of the liquid surface within the bowl.

"I..." the voice pops out unintentionally, and Annie struggles to string the logic together in a way that will not just make Mags frustrated. "Can't."

A heavy sigh, before a kiss presses to the top of Annie's head. Guilt blooms, grows and seeps into Annie's bones, until her eyes prickle ever-so-slightly. 

"I can't, please..." Annie cuts herself off, swallows over a lump in her throat. "Don't be angry."

"Not angry,  _cherie,"_ Mags brushes Annie's hair back behind one ear.

 _Just disappointed,_ Annie thinks. She tries to bury the thought, but it begins to circle in her head. 

"Finish." Mags orders, motioning to the crock of chowder. 

A knock on the door startles Annie, and she looks to Mags, half-nervous, and half-curious.

"Librae." Mags gives a slight smile, and Annie understands.

Mags already asked Librae to come over and keep an eye on Annie. 

Mags knows her too well.

Granted, for a time, just before the hurricane, Annie had taken a walk or two; still avoided the more populated areas, but, now...

Well, now, it seems that every face she sees is not just questioning her sanity, but her asking price, too.

"Hey, Annie," the tall, tanned woman greets as she passes Mags in the hallway. Librae had won fourteen years ago, in a game Annie has seen replayed a handful of times. Dirty-blonde hair, and a slight splattering of freckles across her nose could lead her to be from any District. Her green eyes, though, are a District badge of honor. 

Librae fidgets with her hair throughout her visit, and it's the only thing to leave the company somewhat to be desired. For the most part, though, she simply flips through some old magazines, or makes small-talk about things in town.

She does not ask Annie questions; does not get too personal.

However, Librae turns on the television.

They mention when District Four's grain delivery will be. 

They mention how Annie Cresta seemed  _so much better_ during her last trip to the Capitol.

And then they mention the Reaping for the Seventy-First Games, which will occur in roughly five months.

 

* * *

 

 

Worn hand finds Annie's back, while she sits out in the sand again. Mags slowly lowers herself to sit at Annie's side. Retrieving some needles and thread from within a shoulder-bag, Mags prompts her younger charge in silence.

It is Annie that breaks it, when they have done this every afternoon for a week straight.

"Why haven't they come back?" Annie's voice sounds groggier than she had expected. She realizes, too late, that it is because as much as Mags may prompt her, she hardly answers in anything more than monosyllables. 

Librae has come by, with her comforting silence and seeming obsession with Capitol news reports. Ron has stopped in, with his meat-headed nature bluntly asking if Annie was going to break down if he asked her about her 'construction fees' (she never answered, verbally, just in the literal sense of tuning out to show her retort). Muscida has sat in the living room, smile too sly but all too happy to show Annie his talent with a tin pipe-whistle. 

Finnick has come, too, but he has almost a shadow, at times, even when he pretends not to be. Unless she draws him out, but at times that can feel like pulling teeth.

Daran, though, Daran has not come to see Annie.

Daran, who treated her like a daughter, stepping in [and up] for her, before and during her Tour.

(And the words come to mind, _"Eugenie Ossa is pregnant, don't you know? It's rumored the father is none other than a Victor!"_ and Annie thinks she remembers, but wants to forget, why else he might not be well; she just assumes at this point, that Daran is too disappointed in the Victor he had co-mentored.)

And neither had Aslin or Bo come to visit. 

"Hush," Mags puts a hand on the young girl's back. Annie looks up, sees something calculating in her former mentor's eyes. _"Sonje bwa a memwa?"_

Annie stares for a time, trying to process the information, before nodding slowly. But the memory comes with a prices, and she feels herself sinking slightly. Hand grips down, eyes following, and squeezes until the coarse grains press into her palm.

 _"Èske w te di yo?"_ the voice is no longer soft, but firm, bordering on harsh. Bony fingers dig into Annie's shoulder. "Annie, tell me."

"Didn't, I--" the shaking is beginning, and she has to cover her ears before she hears the shadows and the sounds, and the creaking of the bed. "Didn't, I don't remember where, but I- me no  _pa t 'di anyen."_

Before she knows it, she is crying, and Mags has pulled her head into her lap, talking quietly; telling her to breathe deeply. 

"I'm..." Annie gulps, staring out at the water. Fingers reach up, curl around the fabric of Mags' trousers as shakes rattle her shoulders. Grey water, today, reflecting the skies, it seems to sigh at the shore, rather than push and pull it.  _"Tèlman fatige."_

"Shh," gnarled fingers return in their gentle way; comforting again, not threatening. "They stay away because I ask them to."

Annie feels a sharp breath, one that rocks her lungs as she remains with her head in Mags' lap.

 _"Poukisa?!"_ the voice cracks, the hurt as evident as she cares it to be. 

"Oh, my sweet." Mags sighs, pressing a kiss first to her fingers, then her fingers to Annie's lips. _"Pa gen bon bagay soti nan konnen yon_ Victor."

They sit there for some time, as the sun passes from noon to early evening, before Mags gently reminds Annie that they need to get dinner ready.

They're having guests tonight.

Victors only.

Because, as Mags said, no good comes from knowing a Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed this (and that it actually translates outside of my own brain?)! any comments/crit/etc. are always appreciated!   
> *and yes this Mags isn't quite the gentle sweet old woman, she's just as troubled as Finnick and Annie are. oops! <3


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reaping, stage, names, train, bloodbloodblood--  
> “Hey there,” Finnick calls.  
> Hand finds hers, and she blinks, hears the ice-box cooler kick in; guesses the temperature has gone too high.  
> Stop, think, concentrate.  
> Stay afloat.  
> She would wonder how long she has been sitting here, but there is little point. It is not as if she will get that time back.
> 
> (Or, Annie tries to prepare to be a mentor. It isn't going well.)

**E** ggs have to go to the left of the  **G** rapefruit and Mags’  **H** ot-sauce to the far right.

Annie scrubbed the fridge this morning. Took all of the shelving out, to boot. She is kneeling on the wooden floor of the kitchen, now, checking to make sure that the items do not get arranged incorrectly. Mags has _tsked_ her many times, told her not to worry. It is one of the few things, though, over which Annie can actually exert some control.

If she stops organizing and cleaning, what is she left with, exactly? Seashells, sandy feet, and muddled [painful] memories.

_ If the items are leaning the wrong way, in the icebox, and the door gets opened too fast, and they fall and break, or fall and leak, or fall and get the floors dirty, when the floors need to be clean, or the items get wasted, and you can’t waste things because that means you’re out the money that’s been spent and the house doesn’t clean itself, you know- _

“Annie.”

Name breaks the spell and her whole body jumps, before she turns to see who is speaking. Finnick leans a hip against the counter above her, giving an easy smile. His skin is dark from the sun, and hair dark from being wet. He has been trying to get her to go swimming, but the closest she has gotten is to wade in up to her ankles, then call it a day. Annie does not meet his eyes, instead looking back at the cool, white interior.

Cool feels better, against her skin, than the humid heat outside the door. Funny, she had never minded being damp and hot until now. Maybe it just was too much of a reminder of the medication that made her feel so trapped and made her sweat like mad.

_ Mad. _

Or, perhaps, it was just the difference between artificial (and thus, controllable) to the wild will of nature. That is why she is here, after all. It is not as if they would have selected for the Arena to get a giant crack down its middle, had _Mama Lanati_ not had her little fit.

_ It's not like they would have selected a cowering, sobbing girl, if they had their pick of the litter. _

Annie's fingers cover lips, as a breathy laugh comes out at what President Snow's face must have been like. She wished that had been recorded, instead of the flood.

But time passes, and the laughter loses itself into silence. Time. Time makes it not so funny;  _not, wasn't, won't be._

In February and March, the rain and wind had been so rough, Annie had spent most nights in the closet in Mags’ guest room. Now Annie’s room, it is a pale blue, with funny, childlike drawings of fish, faded over years and years. Most days, too, the new victor had spent in the closet. Finnick or Mags usually came about to try and coax her out. Some days, it took just a few words. Other days, it took hours and the smell of food wafting up from the kitchen.

Spring, in all its glory, meant the weather had calmed some. Warmed, and brightened. It meant more grain had been delivered. That meant cameras, which meant prep teams, and interviews, and _shotsshotsshots_ to the arm. The whole thing was fuzzy, but they had not made her say anything and she supposes that had been a blessing in disguise.

Having a panic attack is certainly worse than slurring the words they stuff in between her lips, right?

They went to the fish market, last month: Mags, Finnick, and Annie. It was Annie’s first- and last, to date, willing trip outside of Victor’s Village. That, at least, had been progress. They did not even sedate her or anything.

Fabi and Manny came and played jacks, every couple weeks, after their classes at the Center. They talk about everything and nothing, and let Annie pretend she does not look as awful as she likely does. She has not taken a cutter to her hair since they got back, in the winter time. Most mornings, the bags are so thick under her eyes that there is little she can, or cares, to do in order to dispel them.

Then, Aslin stopped by, a few weeks ago. First time since January. She brought seasalt hot-cakes, from Annie’s favorite shop on Pesca’s main street. Hug and a kiss but no small-talk, just _hello_ and _I love you;_ but eventually, an explosion. _Cut your hair,_ _get more sleep,_ _go out in the sun more,_ _take more medication_ and _just get better_. They fought, and Sissy stormed off. 

Annie cannot help but think that she failed. She spent the rest of the day under the bed, until Mags came home and called in reinforcements.

Ron, apparently, had not minded scooping Annie up and depositing her in a chair on Mags’ screen porch. He actually has come back, a few times since, to ask if Annie wanted any beer, or come into town for this or that. Not the brightest, but at least he is kind. Librae and Muscida tend to treat her like a non-entity, and Daran has been missing in action since the last group dinner on Mags’ back porch.

There is a tiny parcel, wrapped in cloth, still tied with red-and-white yarn. It’s for the train, Annie has decided. Food too precious to be consumed in haste. Too delicious, too, to be left to go stale.

“Hello,” she says, giving a small smile before hands reach back to the fridge. She moves the **M** ilk to the left so that tonight's **O** ysters, stored in a clear container, set more comfortably on the right, on the middle shelf. The **N** oodles sit in between.

_ Sparse, sparse, sparse. _

There would be more, except the train leaves tomorrow afternoon.

_ Tomorrow. _

Hands freeze up, and her mind threatens to run away on her.

_ Food’s got to get finished before we leave, and the dumb house (your house, going to be for you and you alone) has four walls with no roof, and you haven’t gone (unsedated) further than the market, and then only at the crack of dawn, because the later in the day, the more people and if they want her to do things– _

_Reaping, stage, names, train, bloodbloodblood--_

“Hey there,” Finnick calls.

Hand finds hers, and she blinks, hears the ice-box cooler kick in; guesses the temperature has gone too high.

Stop, think, concentrate.

Stay afloat.

She would wonder how long she has been sitting here, but there is little point. It is not as if she will get that time back.

“Want to take a walk?” he asks.

Let’s have a look at the beach, before we spend hours looking at children slaughter one another.

(Maybe the beach won’t seem so vast if someone’s with you.)

“Okay,” she thinks she says.

He starts to tell her a story, something silly and funny (and a little off-color) and water’s lapping her toes before she knows it.

Maybe if he keeps talking clear through the Games, I’ll be able to ignore everyone and their mother.

_Maybe_.

He stays that night, with Mags and Annie.

None of them have nightmares. It's a Victor's brand of normalcy .

* * *

 

The stone step of the Justice Building makes the heels press up into her ankles. She feels the weight, unsteady, on the tiny spikes and tries to count the cobblestones as the warm wind seems to laugh at them all. Bright banners line the buildings in the square, the children from all the different areas neatly arranged. From one corner to the next, children  _tributes_ everywhere, so that Annie cannot bear to look. 

_ Two of them are going to die, two of them are going to go in and kill and run and cry and bleed. _

She swallows over a lump in her throat, hears the announcements beginning. Librae on her left separates Annie from Mags. An empty void to Annie's right seems to pulsate, and Annie shifts closer to her fellow Victor, until she bumps Librae's shoulder. Annie quickly looks up, to see indifference on the blonde woman's face.

Annie looks back to the ground. The video plays. 

_ "And war, terrible war..." _

 

A breeze knocks the Capitol's large pennant, with a flap against the Justice Building's stone siding. Annie jumps, and the panic already building slowly reaches a boiling point. 

_ Get out, get out, have to get out, too many-- _

"And now, the female tribute from District Four--"

_Going to die, they're going to die, all go in, blood, death, drowning--_   


"Oh, a volunteer!"

_ Putting your neck across the execution slab, volunteering to get your head cut off-- _

"And the male tribute from District Four-"

It's a little boy, little like all the other little boys and girls and no one steps up, no one is ready. 

_ Everyone is waiting for everyone else, and no one is doing anything except dying and crying and there's clapping, but it doesn't mean anything. _

The wave swells up, a tsunami heading from the ocean's depths, directly to them, until all Annie can see is black; all she can hear is the rush of water.

Hands cover ears, lids clamp shut.

Annie Cresta goes away for a time.

* * *

 

"How is  _she_ supposed to help us?!" 

The words seep through the haze, just as light and vision does. Annie supposes she ought to be offended. The numbness from the medication has taken care of that. Being used to the sentiment implied has already desensitized whatever might have been left of her pride.

Cup of tea sits on the table. Annie stares into it, in lieu of trying to meet anyone's gaze. There is a sore spot, in her arm, and as much as they may have done to conceal it, she feels it all the same. Golden bangle around denotes it, despite the flesh-colored bandage. Right hand itches at it, but another hand stops her, pulls her hand away. 

Warm. She looks over, wants to pull away but does not bother to. Because the tanned hand is Finnick's, and though she hears the escort saying something, she goes back to staring at the cup of tea.

The tributes leave, after a time. From their escort's blabbering, she supposes she should know their names. She knows, at the least, that the boy is too little, and the girl is too brash; and she knows they are going to die.

If they don't die, they will deal in demons and bad dreams.

But President Snow already said District Four has enough Victors to go around.

And even a mad girl knows what that means.

_"Pa ka fè sa,"_ she murmurs. 

Her mind drifts off, again, to some far-off place. She does not hear the escort's conversation falter against a lack of reciprocation, or see the looks that Mags and Finnick exchange. 

Instead, she projects an image of the beach, on a calm day, and lets everything else dissolve into the background. After a time, a hand slips into hers again, walks her to her room. Everything feels numb, head to toe, and sinking against the bed does not make her want to sleep. She feels exhaustion, but it is not the sort solved by sleep.

"I don't want..." she begins, blinking before looking up. 

She is surprised to see that Finnick is watching out the window, as the landscape flies by. He does not seem to have heard her, immersed in his own thoughts. Annie rethinks opening her mouth, instead, keeps her words to herself.

_ I don't want to get to know _ _them,_ she wants to say. 

Instead, she follows Finnick's line of sight.

Pretty places, pretty colors. 

It is almost easy to pretend they are not about to help the helpless.

It is almost easy to pretend they are not in a gilded cage.

Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyousomuchforreading, I know it's been a bit since I last update this, and this even is sort of short so... yeah. I've been dealing with some stuff, so I've been very distracted and I hope this isn't disappointing to anyone.  
> comments/crit/etc. are always appreciated, hearing back from you guys helps me so much <3


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old trinket. Disposable.  
> Good, Annie thinks. Invisible girls shouldn’t stay around so many people desperate to be seen.
> 
> (It's going to be a long Game. Maybe.)

The early morning sun calls, an ugly omen of days to come. Orange-red fangs bite through cloud cover, and blinding rays glint off of surrounding buildings. Sleep still drenches bones, but not enough to ignore the contemptuous roll of eyes when Annie says, "Good luck."

She had been woken by shifting bedsheets. His groggy apologies rolled out, unneeded, brushed off with ease. She had settled back to sleep, curled the blankets in fisted hands and watched Finnick get ready. He didn’t turn to say goodbye, before heading out. The boy _(too little, too polite, too many sobs came from his room these past three nights)_ had been scheduled to leave already, but Annie hasn’t seen Finnick since, not even in passing.

_“We’ve got a busy day tomorrow,”_ he had commented. She thinks he might have thought he was thinking, not saying. Words spilled out anyway, and she had nodded in understanding.

He had joked, about the cameras needing something pleasant to look at and listen to. It wasn’t funny, but Annie gave her best almost-smile, and that had made Finnick chuckle more sincerely.

He didn’t mind when she curled up under the blankets of his bed. Comments and words were thrown around, each morning. About _your condition,_ and _how inappropriate._ Mags in silent judgment passed glances from Golden Boy to Mad girl, but hadn’t said a word against their sleeping arrangement. What was the difference, between all in the same house, and all in the same bed? Conserving body heat, Annie had reasoned, and she is certain mama will be proud.

_Would be._

**_No._ ** _Stop, concentrate. Mama’s not the point._

_Delete, fast-forward, rewind._

_Two steps forward, ten steps back._

Annie refuses to sleep in that room. It’s meant to be hers, but she rejects it. Smells like freshly laundered cloth (something Victors are supposed to know better than Annie does). Perfumed candles have been lit and extinguished, so the aroma is not _musk_ and _sex_ and _alcohol_ and _blood,_ as it had last time they stayed here. Still, nauseous hit when she had tried to look at the bed. She had tried, the first night they got here, sleeping in it. Ended up screaming and trying to claw at her wrists, tried to untie them from invisible restraints. 

He came in before everyone else had. He got her hot chocolate, and antibacterial gel and bandages. Stayed up with her, telling silly stories. She had wanted to apologize, but the words haven’t come out quite right. He didn’t say that he _didn’t_ mind. He hardly said anything about it, just let her in, slid under the covers at the end of the day together.

She has taken that as him not minding.

She didn’t mind that he has taken the pills they say he has to take. He groans, an hour after they hit bloodstream, as the medicine leads him _up-up-up._ Makes him irritable, and sometimes hyper, desperate to get to the bathroom alone. Has to excuse himself, a lot, cries sometimes but doesn't want her to know. Annie doesn’t mind that he hasn’t really fallen asleep, from what she can tell. He had been on the bed, but watching the animated screen and not the television. It plays a feed from District Five’s outlook, the one that spies the landscape from atop the hydropower dam. All trees, and a river, but no ocean. Just enough water. 

Not enough to suffocate the world, yet.

No gulls or surf or foghorns. Annie thinks this might have been for her benefit, rather than his own. She thinks he wants to see home. Only, the river doesn’t have the flow towards the camera, the threat of a flood spilling clear through the screen to drown her in her memories.

Their tributes had tucked themselves away early last night, after the interviews. The stylist and escort had left. It was Mags, Finnick, and Annie, and a bottle of something sickly-sweet and colored maroon. They had drank and Finnick told a story about a man with lash-extensions so long that they got caught in the elevator door, had to be cut, and it’s suddenly the biggest fashion trend. Annie laughs, because it’s silly. Even lashes had been a hallmark of her stylist’s intent last year. 

Or, she thinks. 

But the jokes don’t run full-time, and late last night, perfectly sculpted brow turned to a furrow.

Finnick had berated Mags, because their older girl (Mags’ tribute, really, more than Annie’s) had her own district partner. The girl made him sound relatively pathetic. Not hard, since the boy is thirteen. The boy had done his best, in response, made the audience chuckle with his fresh-faced charm, but Annie’s head still screamed ( _/screams/will scream forever)_. It's dangerous, now, for District Four boys to seem too cocky. Finnick Odair taught other Districts a lesson. Ron hadn't been so extraverted, been more unassuming; but even he had to fight off the pack early on. Everyone thinks, now, to target any pretty boys around the age of fourteen or so before the Bloodbath has finished. 

_He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to—_

“Time, _cheri.”_

Mags’ voice carries with surprising authority, cutting through Annie’s thoughts. The mantra comes to mind, _red skies at dawn, sailors take warn._ Despite the relative warmth of the air, Annie shudders. Strange, on a cold, windy roof. The girl _(Nady? Nancy?)_ proudly makes her way to the hovercraft, head high, shoulders back. She wears a confidence that would be impressive, if it weren't bound to be broken in the next few days. She’s eighteen, a year older than Annie; reminded them all every chance she had gotten.

Annie tried to dissuade from joining the Careers. Girl didn’t listen. Annie wonders how loudly she’ll scream, or if she’ll sabotage them and take off. That would be smart. But ‘strongs’ and ‘smarts’ aren’t always an easy thing to mesh.

_Finnick did,_ Annie muses. 

The craft takes flight, displaced air rocketing, screeching in wave that make Annie slam palms over ears, block the sounds out. The craft disappears off to the west somewhere.

_Towards District Three,_ Annie thinks. 

“Hush,” Mags says. 

A worn hand takes Annie's own, gently pats it before they both head back to the elevator.

"I should know her name," Annie realizes, abruptly. She should know, to root for her, or to promote her.

Mags doesn't respond, and Annie wonders what lingers unsaid in her silence. Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

Finnick knows his tribute's name, though.

Finicky can talk to his sponsors about his tribute. 

Maybe he even remembers ours.

_But you're not Finnick._

Mags says she wants Annie to observe, not to try and take over all at once.

_Did say, Annie, did say, isn’t saying, was said, not says now present current ongoing._

_Concluded._

Head muddles over terminologies and forgets to think about strategies.

When they arrive back on Floor Four, a feast is set up in the dining room. The smell of coffee and eggs, and hundreds of millions of other things makes Annie queasy. She falters, but perseveres. They'll have their food, then be brought over to the Concourse, where sponsors will make their appearances. Place their bets. Annie curls her arms around herself, wanting to go away at the thought.

They didn’t come with the needles, yet, and it’s frightening, because they haven’t come much except for right before she was supposed to sit down in the audience to be conversational fodder.

Mags sits down at the table and begins to dig in. Finding her appetite sparse, Annie settles for sliding her food around on her plate. A few minutes. A few, and then twenty. Mags is continuing to gorge herself. Annie is looking around, wondering where Finnick is.

The clock chimes, and the elevator doors should be opening. Finnick should be back by now. An hour to go, now, before the Games will start. An hour, and then… then it starts. Annie squeezes her eyes shut, hands gripping the tablecloth.

“Annie,” sounds from next to her, and warm, scratchy skin meets hers. _“Pran yon douch._ Sati come soon.”

“Who?” Annie frowns.

Mags merely gives a gap-toothed smile, before waving for her to go. 

Annie knows a command when she sees it. She pushes her chair back, heading through the hallway to room she is sharing with Finnick. The Avoxes have been good, about leaving her clothes out. It has not mattered, for her, what to wear. Mags and Finnick have taken care of speaking with preliminary analysts, down in the foyer and on the phone. They have gone to the other mentors on different floors, to discuss potential alliances. The others haven’t come here. Annie thinks Mags and Finnick are trying to keep her from the others. Or, perhaps they have asked for her to stay cooped up here. 

Mostly, the Mad Girl's company has been undesired. 

No one wants to see her here. Or rather, they only want her in select moments. Annie had only really needed to dress up for the Interviews, last night. That was only to be a butt of their jokes, apparently.

Reminders cloud her view, with the laughter, the cameras zeroing in on her (along with _eyes eyes eyes)_ as the Head Gamemaker promises, _‘not to have another Cresta situation.’_ Everyone had _tittered giggled laughed_ as if it were the funniest thing. As if she chose to be… _mad._ Annie had stared at the floor and eventually pushed herself to her beach, to her pretty little piece of sunshine.

_“Ignore it,_ ” Finnick had murmured. They had been backstage, as they waited for their tributes. Mags gave her hand a squeeze, neither of them letting Annie out of their sight. _“Go away, if you have to.”_

Comments still flitted in and out. Annie is still working on tuning them out. It’s harder than it seems, and harder still to find a better place to tune in to.

The door to the room is partially opened, the muffled sounds of the viewing screen projecting the streets of the Capitol. A dress hangs, sparkling and lowcut. It's a wonder they don't just have Victors walk around naked. Arms reach up, rub at her neck a time before she moves past, into the toilet. 

The warmth of the shower soothes her, some, gives her time to lean against a tile wall, pressing hands firmly there to convince herself that _maybe perhaps possibly_ nightmares could stay to the nighttime. 

Maybe.

Only the stylist comes in and cuts her hair, a full foot of it so it only reaches her shoulders, and a sedative makes her head swirl by the time they are in the elevator, heading to the car. Annie grips Mags’ hand tightly, afraid everything will slip and slide into nothingness.

“Where’s Finnick?” she asks, finding it hard to keep her eyes from seeing double. Zeroing in on a wall in front of her is fine, makes it settle, until it moves or she has to move or they’re car doors and they need to be opened, after all.

Mags never does answer her question. She lets go of her hand, when they get to the Concourse, and following dutifully, Annie’s panic is only assuaged by avoiding eye contact and staring in favor of the tile floor, not the people.

Most of the potential sponsors hardly do more than greet her, reach out to touch a shoulder and then engage Mags in conversation. Mags has a few ‘regulars,’ she says, but that’s only from her being around for so long. Annie is a novelty, something that is likely to be forgotten by next year or after that. 

Old trinket. Disposable.

_Good,_ Annie thinks. _Invisible girls shouldn’t stay around so many people desperate to be seen._

She sits at a secluded table, off to the side of the Concourse’s bar. Mags steps away a few times, leaves Annie with hands tightly gripped around a chilled, sweating glass. She’s stepped away, across the hall, to a spot she pointed to but Annie cannot look. There are too many people between here, and there, and Mags has been gone for nearly— oh, time is confusing, it might have only been a minute but it feels like far longer— 

“The nannies finally let you alone, huh?”

The sound, so abrupt and so near makes Annie jump. Sea-green eyes flick up, staring at the young woman speaking. Her approach had been silent. Or, at least, tuned out from Annie's ears. The brunette wears a bored expression, jaw tightly clenched, hair done up, tightly pulled back in a Capitol style that makes her cheekbones look sharp enough to slice flesh.

And that does it, there, because the _axe_ the _blood_ the _cold cackling laugh_ the _screams_. 

_(The grabbing Annie’s breast and hissing lewd implications.)_

Annie squeezes her eyes shut, hands clamping over as she tries to push it out of her thoughts. A harsh punch to the shoulder, and Annie yelps. Eyes open, staring in concentration at the metal tabletop. A chair is pulled back, next to her own. Johanna Mason sits down next to her. The young woman says things that don’t get through, since Annie’s ears are plugged with her fingers, but nails take hold of Annie’s wrist, wrestle it away from her ears. A panic builds, tightening chest and making the shadows begin to lick at the edges.

"Don't!" she wrests her hand away, cradling it in her other hand, expecting it to be torn to shreds. It’s not, but the blood splatters cover from stained fingers and batting lashes try to blink away the image appearing than disappearing on the tabletop.

Dom’s head, Dom’s body.

_Dom, I’m so sorry_

Please, please _pleasepleaseplease--_

"Jesus, Crazy." A hand smacks against the back of Annie's skull, as Johanna scoffs. "What, they didn't give you your meds today?"

“Did, I..." Annie gulps heavily, before chancing a look at the other woman. "Think they're trying to pretend I don't exist." Annie waits a beat, before frowning to herself. “They’re not doing a very good job.”

Johanna smirks at this. She reaches over, grabs at Annie's drink. The brunette throws back the dregs, licking her lips. Annie's eyes narrow, but she doesn't bother to say anything. 

"What is this?" Johanna grimaces. "Tastes like piss."

"Mags." the reply is hardly sufficient.

Johanna rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

Annie’s hands slowly settle in her lap, but fingers still fiddle with the skirt of the dress. Johanna keeps making comments, but all Annie can do is tell her to go away. 

She doesn’t.

She doesn’t, until Annie tells her to shut up. 

It ears her an approving smile.

"Maybe you're not half brainless, after all."  Johanna proceeds to order them shots.

It feels nice, the drinking. Until the Bloodbath.

That's when Annie throws up, and runs to the (not so secure) security of a coat closet. 

_It's going to be a long Game._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, I just want to apologize, I've been really hectic at work and in life, and having focus issues (and ehem quality issues), so thank you for being patient with me, and for continuing to read if you've been doing so. thank you so much, and I hope this isn't disappointing at all!  
> as always, any comments/ crit. /whatevers are always appreciated <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping up the 71st Games.  
> Sort of.  
> (shorterish)

Hiding under the sheets makes it hard to see who is entering and leaving the room.

It hadn't been a problem until now. No one had bothered to come and check on her, not since this afternoon when Mags came to make sure Annie had some lunch brought to her. She had brushed her hair and told her they would be home this time tomorrow. Then she said she had to go to a meeting. Annie hadn't said anything, just watched her go as the Avoxes collected the dishes and shut the door.

Annie lays as still as she is able. Breath makes unfortunate sounds in the stifled environment. Footsteps stop when the door closes, and everything in Annie's body begins to freeze up. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to think of the beach (before the wind) and the waves (before tsunamis and hurricanes). Footsteps resume, lighter now, as if trying to be silent. Eyes open, watching the strange way light glows through the lightweight duvet. Shuffling sounds against the rug and a weight near her stomach dips the bed, the sheets going taut between where her body ends and the unidentified invader begins. 

"You awake?" a voice whispers. 

 _Finnick,_ her brain supplies. 

"No," she replies.

A soft chuckle, before the blankets are lifted, just an inch. 

"Please don't."

Almost immediately, the weight is set back, allowing her to remain covered. Annie takes a deep breath. The body moves, but doesn't lift from its seated position. Words buzz and flit about.

She wants to ask.

Doesn't dare. 

 _"You're done,"_ he had said at the light show. 

She can count on one hand the locations she has gone between, whereas he leaves every night, has since the day they arrived. Says different names, comes back looking like a different form of messy and messed-up each time.

"Finnick?" 

"Yeah?"

Annie waits, but so does he. Neither of them get anywhere with silence. Annie pulls the comforter down past her chin, and stares at her friend. 

_"Mèsi."_

She expects to have to explain, to have him object or frown or something, anything, but instead his expression is impassive at best. Indifferent, at worst. He shrugs, and begins to remove a few bracelets and rings from his person. He tosses them into a basket on the nightstand.

If she weren't this way, he wouldn't have to cover her, wouldn't have to look at her (the way they all sometimes do) as if she is going to fall apart. And maybe she will, and maybe she won't, but if she wasn't... _if everything didn't affect me--_

"What's wrong?" Finnick asks, having paused his motions to watch her.  

Annie shakes her head, avoiding his eyes. She pulls the sheet back over her head. 

"Annie, we can talk."

She doesn't know where to begin.

"Did you leave the bed today?"

Annie doesn't bother answering. She had, but she still hasn't left the room and she thinks that he thinks the room and bed are interchangeable. They're not, but Annie doesn't feel like explaining.

She isn't sure how long Finnick sits there, but eventually the escort is screeching through the door and saying it's time for dinner. 

* * *

 

Nervous fingers drum against the pillowcase. She resists turning over to glance at the clock _one_ time,  _two_ times,  _three_ whole times before she finally gives in and rolls over. 

03:09:47. 

It hits the chest like a crested wave and Annie sits up, abruptly. She watches more minutes and seconds tick by, before standing, and beginning to pace. She gets tired of it after a while, pauses to sit on the floor, then goes to the window. And then the pacing resumes. The monotony, repetitiousness of it soothes her. As she paces, she picks at the nail polish lingering on fingertips. It's sturdier stuff than she would have anticipated. Thick and difficult to scratch, never mind chip. 

03:45:04.

Hands are shaking themselves out when she hears the ding of the elevator in the distance. 

03:47:24.

He smells like roses and wine. A lurch hits her stomach when he smiles at her, more for the wary, confused look in his eyes than the blinding flash of teeth. He promptly trips over his feet and begins to laugh, rolling onto a back. Annie takes his hand, tries to help him stand, but Finnick just lays on the rug, staring. Annie stops, drops his hand and takes a step away. The directness of the gaze makes her uncomfortable, makes her bones shift under skin like twisting little greenflies that creep the shores at low tide.

"What?" Annie asks, glancing uncertainly at Finnick. He dramatically props his head up against his hand, elbow on the floor.

"Are you taking me to bed, Annie Cresta?"

"Not taking." Annie shakes her head. "Putting."

"Ah." Finnick waggles his brows, trying to stand but nearly falling flat on his face. Annie half-catches him by one arm, winces as she tries to pull his heavy weight up. Finnick, leaning heavily against her, smiles warmly. "Put me away, Annie Cresta!"

Annie purses her lips, helps to get him to the bed. He collapses back, eyes roving the ceiling as if studying the constellations. He's singing some sea-shanty, but the words aren't how Annie remembers; 

 

> _"I once had a gal, her hair was red,_  
>  _‘Twas curly all over except on her head._ _"_

Perhaps she never learned the right words, though. Bo sang a different version, and Papa tended to hum most of the parts, because when he drank the last thing he could keep track of was song lyrics. Finnick throws his arms out, belting out, _"_ _Johnny come down to Hilo, poor old man!"_ before laughing and rolling his head to the side. He's waggling his brows at Annie again, and she curls her arms around her center. It reminds her of her papa. The drinks and the empty bottles along the windowsill, the way the glass looked when he smashed them up against a wall (never at them, never touched them with anything but hugs and kisses but oh, could he be angry). And all at once she feels the shadows calling, _the tenement with the crying babies one flat over as papa says to go, come back in an hour, and as she leaves she hears the curses and the smashes and his knuckles are bruised by the time she comes home._

Finnick sits up, and brushes a lock of her hair. He tucks it behind her ear, thumb sliding down her cheek. A jolt of electricity hits, hair on the back of her neck raising. He's warm. But the reminiscence runs cold, and for a moment she can't see him. She sees the other one _Mr. Alexander, sir, with the riding crop and-_ the warm hand takes hers, a smoothed thumb rubs circle-eights around her knuckles. Annie looks down, squeezes his fingers tighter in self-assurance. Finnick is holding her hand. Finnick smells like alcohol and is drunk and is singing some other song, one that's fuzzy and distant and she isn't really hearing it, but the comfort is still there. It's not loud and brash. It's kind. 

And then he presses a kiss to her hand.

Annie goes immobile.

The world stops.

His lips pull into an easy smile as his hand moves away, runs through his own hair, ruffling it all up.

Annie doesn't know what to do. 

This is reality: Finnick Odair drunk off his bum, singing soft little dirty songs. And now he's throwing himself back, singing to the unseen sky.

She notices the underarms of his shirt, darkened she supposes with sweat. She kneels on the bed, about to unbutton his shirt but at a glassy-eyed stare she stops She shouldn't. He's been dressed and undressed so many times, and she wonders if anyone has asked his permission. 

Probably not.

"Wannit off?" his teeth resemble a shark about to snap at its prey.

Annie tries to keep from shrinking. Finnick watches her, a dullness to his eyes despite the smile glued on. He unbuttons slowly, leaning back once he's done. He tugs the shirt so that his chest is in full view, tightens his muscles. Annie looks away, trying to keep from thinking about the tingling sensation she's getting. Wrong, wrong, wrong, broken, damaged.

_All my fault._

"Shh." Sheets rustle, and the smell of alcohol on his breath makes Annie cringe as he wraps her in a hug. It's only then that she realizes she's crying. He's drunk, but she's the one crying, and he's the one trying to comfort her now, even though he's so confused he's willing to start stripping for her. 

Hands try to scrape away tears running down her cheeks. 

"Wanna see something?" Finnick slurs, voice conspiratorial as his face leans just a little too close to be comfortable. "My friend showed me."

Annie hesitates, but before she can respond, he's struggling to stand up on the bed. He offers her a brilliant smile, and a hand up. When Annie declines silently, Finnick proceeds to jump up and down, smile widening, becoming more sincere, and accompanied by laughter, each time he nearly falls off of the bed.

Before Annie can help it, she's laughing at his ridiculousness.

Joining him seems the only logical conclusion.

* * *

 

No needles. 

No shots. 

No swabs or cuffs or doctors and Annie wants to ask why, but instead keeps her mouth tightly shut. 

Maybe they forgot.

The cameras assault and assail and mind tries to find the happy, but the only thing she can do is rub her neck intently, resting slapping hands over ears as much as possible. Until someone shrieks at just the right decibel, shrieks Finnick's name and then...

_and then..._

_She's in water, with a sky beyond the sky and views of mountains and swimming to keep away from the falling debris, breakaway panels like children's teeth, shiny and popping out at random, sights beyond like something fresh and new and different._

He'd asked, once, if she had anything to tell him. The President. She was nearly so out of it she almost said, but Mags had eyed her and Annie started crying, asking why the bodies were still there. 

That's when the doctors gave her different medicine. President stopped asking, started looking at her like some sort of amusement rather than a threat.

And it was all downhill.

_All my fault._

The train is moving and she's leaning her head against the cool glass, grateful for the warmth of the sun. 

Finnick has a deck of cards. He lays them out, asks if she wants to play. She could beat him, easy, Bo had said Annie has a good poker face. 

But that was years ago. 

Finnick's talking himself raw, eventually leading into a silence as he shuffles the deck. Instead of playing, Annie watches trees blur into mountains, and daylight into night.

She tries to pretend either of them know what normal is, so they can pretend to be closer to that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii, so I've been in a weird place in real life, my attention's been sketchy at best, so I hope this wasn't disappointing or boring (eep that would be the worst), I'm contemplating whether I should ask for help, I've never had a beta before because I'm not quite organized enough to have someone look at my hot messes before they're published! ;D but anyway!  
> as always, thank you for reading, and any comments/ crit. would be appreciated! hopefully will be able to work every two weeks for updates <3 <3 <3


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pen in hand. Journal on lap.  
> Back to the little ripped shredded torn shards of paper scattered across the wooden floors.  
> No fires.  
> Nope, not today, too warm out.  
> (Clambake next week, though.)  
> Six-thirty. Right.  
> Solids, focus on the solids.
> 
> (Or, Annie tries to concentrate and make checklists. And struggles majorly.)

Checklists are meant to help. Tidy and organize the mind, clarify things for invisible girls who come and go with the tides.

They aren’t working. 

Physically _working,_ perhaps. She’s working on them, for one thing. But the pile of crumples pieces of paper littering Mags’ sitting room can hardly be deemed a success.

_What else is new?_

Librae had given Annie a journal, a few months ago, back when Annie still hid mostly in closets or under the bed’s duvet covers. Tighter spaces could be a double-edged sword, but the cave she had hidden in had been confining in that way too. Difference being, it had saved her life.

Besides, covers and sheets were nice and soft and cooling in the summer air and _it still feels safer—_

_Stop._

Off topic. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

Count _one-tap- two-tap- three._

Breathe. 

Hands are on ears again?

Not good.

_Be a big girl, Annie._

Pause. 

Concentrate.

_What’s around?_

Feel the cushions. Grab the pen. Solids. Verified. Back to reality.

_(No one’s bleeding or crying or bandaging me up, so we’ll consider this a success, too.)_

Annie looks back at her list. 

10:00:00 is still blank and that is the whole problem, to begin with. 

At six-thirty, Annie got up.

No, _woke_ up, didn’t _get_ up.

Six-thirty _woke_ up, stared at ceiling. Heard Mags rustling around.

_Wait, no._ Heard Mags and that’s what caused the opening of the eyes and—

She crosses everything out, rips still another page from the book. Begins at six-thirty. 

_Mags woke me up because she dropped a vase. Right?_ Sure, fine, go with it.

If the hearth had a fire lit, these papers could be termed as kindling. Frustration mounts, and Annie tries to keep it from becoming a panic. 

Those build so easily. It’s from fear, mostly, but anger and resentment and sadness all cause it, too, like the slightest feather can topple the whole house of cards until Annie’s left to rebuild the pieces from scratch. Not by herself, necessarily, but some part of this is always on her, and her alone.

Finnick and Mags are… not in the room. Okay, yes, good, keep concentration to keep the little fluttering flies at back.

They help, when those happen, her mentor and… whatever Finnick is. Friend. Her mentor and her friend, then.

Annie had one two days ago, when Finnick took her to the sweet-shop in Town, and some teen boy screamed out a laugh that sounded more bloodcurdling than joyous. The broom closet was towards the back of the building, which had been nice, because it meant less people heard Finnick murmuring, trying to calm Annie down from the other side of the door.

Finnick is in the Capitol.

Not here. Wasn’t at dinner, but there were three at dinner? But it wasn’t him.

Right? Right. Someone else. Girl, female, right? Sure. Fine. Okay. Get to that in the slot for 07:33:45 (she thinks, could have been different) because that was when dinner had been ready. 

Yesterday’s entry told her Finnick had left at night, so Annie can verify it further than he’s just simply _not here._ Besides he probably would not want to sleep here, with Mags. Yes, he would, because he screams sometimes in his sleep or sobs or slams a door because he’s locking himself in the bathroom afraid of the world.

Mostly, though, he sleeps at his house. Mostly. 

He says it’s because of Mags’ snoring too loudly. She shakes the whole house at times.

Drifting, Annie. Drift back, stay afloat, concentrate. 

Pen in hand. Journal on lap.

Back to the little ripped shredded torn shards of paper scattered across the wooden floors.

No fires.

Nope, not today, too warm out. 

(Clambake next week, though.)

Six-thirty. Right. 

_Solids, focus on the solids._

The summer sun was there, glowing and laughing and making her feel more wrong. She preferred sleep to hot sand, but the sun seemed to be calling in a more mocking than welcoming manner. Sunrise as the morning bell in Town honking out, had meant they could leave the house.

She had taken the garbage out. Mags had old things, like a shattered vase and old books, weighing the bag down. Village’s dumpster has been moved next to Annie’s house, since the construction zone is still as such. Dirt and grime and seedy old men who watch Annie (if) when she leaves the house. She thinks they do. Finnick says they don’t, from what he has seen, but it’s different when he walks with her. Everyone stares at him, instead, like a magnet or a blinding shooting star no one chances a blink, in case it streaks by too fast. He gets those sort of looks from women and men both, after all. Annie’s seen it the few times she’s gone in to Town, with him and Mags. The women there don’t look away, even if he’s indifferent and blank-faced, and holding Mags’ arm and Annie’s groceries. He is so accustomed to it that the gazes hardly register at times, even if the attempts at touch make him give that too-tight-too-bright smile. 

Annie does not have the energy to try and explain the anxiety, tries sometimes and he in turn tries to understand it, respect it, all those lovely things. Tries to understand why it takes her a thousand times before she works herself into putting on ‘real’ clothes. How many times she’ll layer on another sweater, and still another, before she is ready to leave the safety of the indoors.

Wait.

Time. 

Times?

How many times… no, she’s becoming distracted thinking about Finnick. That simply will not do.

_I need the time._

Wasn’t until later. 

Garbage, that is. 

See? Backtracking. 

Not good. 

Ten laps forward, eight laps back. 

A laugh, because _laps._

Lapses in laps.

She cannot even remember the last time she took a lap in the water. Fab and Manny and Finnick waded into the creek, on the other side of Victor’s Village. Annie collected some shells, and watched the shy fiddler-crabs scuttle away into their none-too-well-concealed hiding places. Finnick named them. It was fun. Twinges of sadness, of loneliness, of upset begin to seep in.

12:35:00? Could be the right time, Annie cannot be sure. She had waited until the construction men were gone, for their lunch break. Mags was busy out back, working on donations for the children’s home, in Pesca. When do workmen take their lunch? Late afternoon, maybe? Bo hadn’t come home at the noon-bell. He doesn’t do that anymore, though. Sometimes Aslin and Bo will invite Annie to meet for lunch by the docks (sometimes, Annie actually will show), but they haven’t come to the Village at all since… Annie cannot even remember. Months?

Annie moves to the after-noon section in her little journal.

Hadn’t there been sandwiches? Yes, good. Annie adds it to the list in the small notebook, brow furrowing as she tries to run through events without it becoming jumbled.

Organizing utensils is far easier than this. Makes more sense, more physical to handle and place and be certain of their placements.

_Maybe I should go do that instead…_

No, Mags had said one hour for journal-time, before bed, to try and ease Annie’s mind at night. It didn’t seem to work, instead stresses her out and her heart _thump-thump-thumps_ in the way intangible hallucinations (not the same as projected pleasantries) pulse through her mind.

The cushions on the couch fuss slightly, a shoulder nudges her own. Annie bites her lip, wanting to concentrate but realizing that the task is rather… boring, at worst, and confusing at best.

“Whatcha doin’?” 

Another bump against her shoulder and Annie gives her friend a mock-crossed look. A thick, brown eyebrow raises, and Annie sighs heavily.

“I’m trying to do my checklist.” Annie tries to keep her annoyance out of her voice. “Just give me a minute?”

“You invited me over,” Fabi pointedly reminds her friend, before wrapping her arms around Annie’s shoulders. “Anniebanannie, me _anwiye.”_

“You invited yourself over,” Annie grumbles in reply. It wasn’t entirely true; Annie had said, _‘You should sleep over sometime.’_ And Fabi had only today taken up the offer, since it was the weekend and there were no programs or events or parties or anything of note going on until Monday.

“Duh.” Fabi snorts, squeezing her friend tightly. “What would you be doing without me?”

Annie purposely tries to wrestle from her friend’s embrace, but Fabi only chuckles and curls her arms tighter. Annie laughs, trying to wiggle out, but when Fabi remains unrelenting, nerves stand on edge and slowly, slowly Annie clenches her fists, blinking away the rigidity and paralysis that threaten to overtake her.

“Pleaseletgo,” she whispers, a shaky breath stuttering her chest and words. 

Immediately, Fabi pulls back.

_“Se konsa regrèt.”_ Warm hand plants itself on Annie’s back, gentle circles making their way about her spine.

Green eyes squeeze shut, hands tightening around pen and pad and only loosening their stone grip when the shadows have receded. 

“Do you need Mags?” Fab asks. The voice is seeping in through a blackened haze of images which remain disconnected from the world Annie can feel around her. 

Shaking her head, she blinks her eyes opened again, swallowing the yelps and gasps and cries and pleas.

“Victor’s Village?”

“Yes,” Fabi reassures, one hand resting on Annie’s knee. 

_“San danje?”_ A smaller voice, something like a child from the recesses of her mind speaks through Annie’s lips. She would blush, feel embarrassed if it weren’t for the familiarity of the feeling of insignificance that fills her.

“Yes,” Fabi’s voice sounds tenuous, but Annie is uncertain if it’s her own imagination or not. 

Eyes shut, the gradual reminder of Fabi’s likely discomfort washing over Annie with burning cheeks slowly emerging.

_Deep breaths._

_Concentrate._

Other hand is still providing that comforting gesture, something like a tether that keeps her from floating away altogether.

Annie nods, before the curling instinct, that desire to disappear in her own way begins. She turns to her friend, arms wrapping around her in barely-restrained desperation. 

_“Li nan oke,”_ Fabi says softly. Her friend’s embrace takes Annie in, lets Annie cling to her. “Me _dezole._ I won’t do that again.”

_“Mèsi,”_ Annie thinks she says. 

The urge to apologize lingers in her, reasoning absent but guilt omnipresent.

Mags' cuckoo clock in the foyer opens with a click of wood, an old five-note tune softly ringing out the hour. Annie hums along with the tune, up and down a chord, stuttering at the top and bottom as it goes. The music stops, and Annie realizes she still has her friend captive in a hug. She quickly moves her arms, and only then does Fabi pull back. 

_"Konnen ki sa?"_ Fabi's brow rises, a mischievous smile blooming on her face. 

_ "Ki sa?" _

"We should make something for your friend."

Annie frowns, not following. 

"Finnick's coming home in two days, yeah?

"Yeah..." Annie's arms curl around herself. _"Se?"_

"And you like to cook." Fabi tilts her head, arching her brows and smiling so ridiculously that Annie has to laugh, something of Finnick in that expression alone. 

_ "Se konsa?" _

_"Se,_  I bet Mags' has ingredients for spice cookies."

It isn't until two in the morning that Mags' halting steps bring Fabi and Annie to pause their cooking. And it isn't until Mags' scolds them both (though more fondly than angrily) that they get the step-ladder out to wipe batter off of the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry that I have been behind in the work-producing department, thankfully most schools are back in session and I'm not running around like a chicken with my head cutoff, which hopefully means more time to actually think up things to add. I know this a bit choppy and random/shorter, but hopefully we'll be getting along with this for the next update ;)  
> Big thank you to everyone who has commented/messaged me/bookmarked and kudos'd, it really helps me feel like I'm not just yelling out into the void and gets me motivated to get more out there.   
> (I may come back and re-edit, we shall see)  
> Comments/crit./etc. are always appreciated <3


	14. chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many friends.
> 
> Annie’s terribly popular.

Two bluish-black bruises have popped up overnight. Might have been there without her noticing, but Annie’s wonders if perhaps she did something in her sleep again. Or, not ‘sleep,’ that’s not the right term. It’s sleep-like enough for the term to still fit.

Black holes of foggy things like sailors kissing the sky red, pink-cheeked ladies swimming out to the ships and serenading them to their watery doom.

Better than thinking about Dom.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Stop, pause, count to ten, and down again.

_ (Ten times longer, right? Old saying, sounds better in Creel.) _

Creel.

Dhow Furler trying to say the funeral rites with the words all jumbled and _anger? sure!_  anger in his gaze.

She wanted to hide, hide, far away in her closet or under the bed, or maybe at the bottom of the ocean where no one would bother her.

Hide like she tried to hide while Dom was being held down and his head was hacked, hacked, hacked, blood dripping, crimson but black in the shadows as it pooled in the mud.

_ “Here’s a present, Four!” _

Like heads make good ammunition for anything except complete disorientation.

And it, worked, it did. Theirs, not hers. Annie’s plans go as far as spit in the wind.

_ Mwen swete w pa t 'te di m' kache. _

_ If I didn’t hide, maybe I could be sleeping like you’re sleeping. _

(Except, Annie enjoys breathing too much.)

Legs are still hooked through the lower rung of handrails, fingernails pressing into the splintery weather-worn wood. Deep pain drags across the grains and Annie bites her lip, letting the reality be the focus.

She’ll fall if she doesn’t hold on to something solid. Crack the base of her skull on the wooden boardwalk behind.

_ “Tout tout dwa?” _

The voice makes her jump, and Bo’s hand immediately is on Annie’s shoulder.

“Annie, it’s Bo,” he murmurs. _“Ki sa?”_

Annie gulps heavily, feels heat in her cheeks (she’s tried to be so good), and simply nods. She knows his voice mostly but there has formed this distance, between the two of them. The pace of maybe three? miles where one lives and the other doesn’t, and that seems to have made the difference, good or bad or neutral.

“M’fine.” Annie shifts as best she can, leaning forward and watching the water lap against the boat slip a few feet below. Bo’s on break, still, had lunch with Annie and Aslin but has to go finish this morning’s load.

He stinks like rotten, _rotten--_

Nope, _pausestopconcentrate,_ count to ten, then down again.

Hands find ears and the screams aren’t so bad, but some portion of her brain remembers they aren’t real. Fingers graze the sides of her neck.

“Hey--”

“We’re in District Four?” she tries not to speak too loud, in case this is unreality and the real murderers come crashing through the pretty blue sky and salt-sea air.

Embarrassing, comes to mind, but isn’t terror more appropriate?

Words get jumbled, maybe what she’s feeling is terror.

It’s hard to know, anymore.

(A-b-s-t-r-a-c-t-s, so silly.)

“Yes.” Bo, yes, good.

Bo means not the Games, he wasn’t (isn’t?) there.

(Isn’t, meaning she is, and this is all a dream?)

It makes it much _neater tidier okay thank you come_ again _._

“We had lunch.” the voice accompanies a hand on her back, one that slides up to squeeze her shoulder. Solids make solid, and it’s hard to pretend like this isn’t a happy dream compared to most anything.

“Fish you traded Arnie Leven yesterday?”

“Yeah!”

Proud, mocking, embarrassing comes again. 

One word, yet such a tone.

“And Arnie said even though you had a victor for a sister, she was crazy, so he could afford some charity?”

Bo doesn’t respond to that, until Annie raises a brow at him. He nods. Mad girl, then, oh well.

At least she’s right!

Shake of the head helps _(dizzies, too),_ and focusing on the gentle water a few feet underfoot numbs the mind enough.

Foghorn blasts, and she looks to it quickly. Bo is watching her, but eyes flick to her left, to the boat he’s meant to get back on to finish the day’s work out. Annie nods, too _quick-quick-quick_ but oh well, there it is.

“Mags’ll walk you home?”

Mags had a ‘meeting’ in Pesca, but Bo doesn’t can’t know, so Annie nods and the lie lives in her throat.

“Where’s she meeting you?” Bo asks, head tilting slightly. “I’ll walk you-”

“No!” red-blonde strand strays into her eyes and Annie pushes it behind her ear. “I’ll be okay.”

She didn’t want to walk home alone.

She does, anyway.

Embarrassed? _No, be a big girl now._ Carve the boat and row it, too.

Annie pauses at the strip of land connecting Town to Victor’s Village. She goes off the side of the road, climbs down the embankment to dip hands in, brings them to her nose and breathes deeply.

_ Home. _

It doesn’t always feel like it. Days come that make this unthinkable, if not petrifying. But the saltwater still means _Ocean, Beach, Four,_ means _home,_ and all the horrible images in the world can’t take _home_ out of her.

Tongue tastes like sand like salt, hands clammy as the salt dries off them. She climbs back up to the road with little grace, wiping hands lazily on her slacks. Water evaporates strangely in the humid air, clings as a translucent second-skin, a comfort and strangulation to being alone. Time at the docks lasted from just before noon. Annie and Mags had been in Town by mid-morning helping with frenzied, pre-winter plans.

Counting _one, two_ takes more than two seconds. Up to three, now.

_ Three little sea-gulls, floating on the waves… _

It had something to do with diving for fish, the way gulls do. Speed quicker than lightning, dropping abruptly from the sky to smash through the rolling blue-grey.

_ One fell down and… _

But the words don’t come, and the bleating of a boat’s short blast offshore _(May I pass you, please?)_ scares her from her thoughts.  

Mags had plans, and Annie told Mags a fib, saying Aslin would walk her home. Only knows it’s a fib, now, hadn’t been a fib at the time, because at the time Annie hadn’t known Az would need to head back to the shop early, or that Bo would spend the hour asking Annie about _boys_ and _how are your friends?_ And end up overstaying his lunch. Lied to Bo, too, but that was a known one. Made it worst, almost, than the one she hadn’t intended to tell.

They hadn’t been too far from the Village, really, just at the docks so to the docks’ entrance, through the center of Town.

_ Over the ocean and through the swamp, to Victor’s Village we go. _

Good, good, walking by herself, so proud. It’s like she’s an adult or something.

(Mocking voices can still pay compliments. They’re not even quite wrong.)

Eighteen.

Eighteen years, two days, and three hours. _Right?_ Right.

Sure, but the journal ended up under the pillow, and everyone’s in Town or at their homes cooking dinner, or… just not here.

_May the odds be in her favor,_ to get a handle on the date.

As if.

Clam-bake preparations had started this morning. It is supposed to happen tomorrow but the Peacekeepers keep stripping down what was and was not permitted, and now it’s as if everything has been put together last-minute, though it’s been talked about for months. Now the Peacekeepers are saying those who are cooking need to have cooking licenses. Those who are contributing food items need to verify where they got their items from. If they bring something undocumented to the Bake, they’ll be arrested.

And those who are attending need to get leave. To get the time off, they must prove to the attendants in the Judicial Building that they’ve worked enough hours in the past pay-month to earn it. Bo can’t go, and Aslin has to work in the market. Even though Az had met Annie and Mags for lunch. (battered fish from Arnie Leven with a side of seaweed bread, coarse with the discounted tesserae grain, but salted all the same.) Az had said, _Can’t come but is there money?_ and Annie had thought what was the Victory money for, anyway?

Mags had muttered disapprovingly, must have been at the bad table manners because crumbs got everywhere and the ants would probably come out to play soon.

But Annie gave Sissy the money today. If they run out of funds for the ‘new house’, Annie figures sleeping at Mags’ home is better than nothing. She wouldn’t mind a roofless house until the rainy season. Even sleeping on the beach doesn’t sound too bad. Peacekeepers would love that, wouldn’t they? Mad Victor sleeping on the beach after curfew. They’d probably hope she’d drown and save them the trouble, at the next Reaping.

Aslin says one of the Sibb cousins are getting married next week. _Can Annie help make the net?_ Annie hesitated herself into feeling obligated to say yes.

(She’s always wanted to make a wedding net. It’s just that she’s wanted to make it for her brother and his fiyanse, going on twelve years now.)

Cal and Sally are sweet. They gave Aslin clothes for Bo, and some even to give to Annie when she got back from the Capitol’s hospital.

_ Hi, sure, fine, yes, okay, I’d love to, thank you, more please, hug, kiss, sleep tight, bye. _

All sound fine. Can’t remember which came out.

Heavy sigh escapes, as achy feet slow. No people surrounding her, now, she’s outside of Town and the quiet by contrast is beautiful. Tensed shoulders ease.

_ Deep breaths. _

_ Stay afloat. _

It’s a beautiful day to take a walk.

Shattered remnants of shells litter the road to Victor’s Village. The gulls drop their fortified catches from on high, to break opened the carapace and eat the tender meat encased. Annie leans down, scooping up one such fragment, a discarded crab-leg not too far ahead. The warp and clack against one another, the empty shells, textured ribs of the exteriors interrupted by barnacles. Funny, just the wrong angle, and barnacles sliced Fabiola’s foot up, when she’d tried to climb the far side of West Beach’s pier. First time Annie had to patch someone up, at least enough to get Fabi into Town to see the doctor. They were nine, and ‘patching up’ wounds had only been familiar because of the Career Center’s classes in first aid.

Realization at the image overtaking the reality has her shudder, head shaking before she notes she is walking absently forward. Travelling, travelling, body never leaving District Four. Back, forth, back again. Shoulders raise, hands pressing deeper into her pockets.

The oversized sweater Annie had found tucked away in Mags’ closet makes for good storage space. Makes it easy until it doesn’t and she feels lead weights bogg down, feet dragging along the gravel as she crosses the road to the Village. The guards stand post at the entrance to the Village. Chills prickle down Annie’s spine but shaking hands get stuffed into her pockets, and Annie ducks her gaze, keeps it glued to the dirt. She wants to turn on her heel and flee.

“What’ve you got today, Cresta?” one of the guards sneers.

She wants to reply but words stick on her tongue the way gritty sand sticks between her teeth.

“Mad, this one, you don’t know what she might have.”

The speaking Peacekeeper steps closer. Her hands clutch at her shells.

“Hold up,” a voice interrupts. The second Peacekeeper, the one who had remained silent.

Annie keeps her eyes on the ground, silence the best offense. Or defense. Both and neither?

“She doesn’t look like a danger,” Peacekeeper Two says. He motions with his nightstick at Annie’s pockets. She flinches, but the weapon never comes more than an inch near her. “What’s in your pockets?”

Gulping, a shaky hand pulls out the shells.

The first Peacekeeper scoffs.

“Thank you,” the second one tells Annie, turning back to his partner. “See? Not a danger.”

Annie glances up, wants to say, _“Put a knife in my hand,”_ wants to say, _“Did you see me in the water?”_ but lack of expectations can be a good camouflage, so she holds the thoughts in.

They have their mask off, both of them. They’re older, though that doesn’t say much, because Annie looks _(feels)_ like a twelve-year-old on a good day, when she’s eighteen.

_ (Eighteen!) _

Peacekeeper Two, who says Annie’s not a danger, is a deep tan like any other person from Four. His hair is strikingly white-blonde. Annie wonders if the top of his scalp is as tan as his face, if it took a lot of time for his skin to stop turning lobster-pink. He maybe could be twenty or so, but with the clean-shaven look Peacekeepers keep, Annie cannot be certain. His eyes are brown with glints of green.

Green, like the sea.

_ Finnick.  _ Finnick's are  a more pleasant shade.

The other Peacekeeper looks like a rat, but that could just be association problems.

Annie stuffs her shell-filled hands back in her pockets.

“Let me walk you to your door,” Peacekeeper Two offers.

_Why?_ She wants to ask, but purses her lips instead. Peacekeeper One seems to find nothing strange about Two’s offer, doesn’t comment or scoff or snort now.

Annie tries not to shudder as she follows the Peacekeeper to her door. The only solution becomes to look at her feet and stride forward, feeling like she’s being led to a flogging.

“Annie, right?” the tone has changed, it’s softer now. A fray to the voice keeps his words quiet. Like he’s trying to keep a scared critter from fleeing, so you can trap and remove it when it keeps eating all your fish. Feral animal or a small child.

_ (But we’re a big girl, right?) _

Annie is caught up in her own mind as she walks. The dried barnacles on the shells press into her skin with painful precision.

“I watched your Games, last year.”

_ You don’t say? _

Bitterness settles in, settles in Annie’s mind. This man likely has no worries about his nieces or nephews or friends going into the Games. Peacekeepers come from Two. District Two has Careers. Four has Careers too, _sort of almost,_ but it’s not the same.

“I liked your outfit, at the Parade, you looked beautiful.”

It was the petals and a thin, sheer fabric around her bum. Annie grimaces, trying to will herself to forget.

“You’re an amazing swimmer, by the way. Your endurance was impressive, given the situation.”

Sharp inhale, but it must be quiet, because he talks about Dom, not by name but about his talent. About what a shame, he was so young.

Shut up, please, shut up shut up shut up. Not listening, fa-la-la.

_ Mwen pa vle panse sou li. _

Lip is beginning to tremble, prickles of tears forming in her eyes. She blinks rapidly, trying to walk faster, but not wanting to arouse suspicion.

_ Has Mags’ house always been so far away from the Village gates? _

Only a short span left to go.

“I’m Artie, by the way,” he says.

_ Shut up, I don’t care, shut upshutupshut— _

Only a few feet now.

“You’re staying with Mags Flanagan, right? You have the key to her house?”

Annie nods stiffly, not looking up.

“Good.”

Mocking again _. Fine, it’s fine._ Don’t treat her like a person, it’ll get too confusing.

Annie slides her thumb underneath the shells, feeling the now-warm metal of a single key, to unlock both Mags’ front and back entries. The Peacekeepers have copies of all the locks. Annie saw them in the Judicial Building, after the Victory Tour when she’d wandered off during the District Feast.

Fear now keeps her from moving forward, without being dismissed. Did they register her as living with Mags? Does President Snow have a copy of the keys, too, just because he can?

“I’m going to be working security for the Village for a while.”

_ Congratulations. _

“I’d like us to be friends,” he says.

Annie refuses to respond.

_ Friends. _

Thoughts of Dom are swirling about with images of barnacle-sliced fingers. Dom being escorted by the Peacekeepers up to the stage in the Square on Reaping Day. Peacekeepers escorting Dom’s coffin to the graveyard.

Peacekeepers in their guard-boats, machine guns mounted to the port and starboard sides, aiming the search-light at the motor-boat and letting the guns rip into the side of it as mama screamed.

Annie can feel her stomach twisting into anxious knots, an undeniable nausea from the heat, the fish, the words, the memories, the fear.

Friends.

Are the construction men watching, too?

_ Everyone just wants to be your friend, Annie, how darling. _

_ (Lykos wanted to be your friend, too, isn’t that right?) _

“Thank you for...,” _nothing?_ “Walking me home.”

“Of course.” He might be smiling, but she doesn’t look up to see if her guess is correct. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Grip tightens around her shells, and Annie shakes her head.

“I don’t,” she states.

_ I won’t. _

He leaves, and she thinks he says something else but she is fumbling to get the key out of her pocket, into the lock. Shuts the door, bolts it and runs to her room, locking that door, too, for good measure. Panic is beginning to set in and Annie begins to pace, tries to ward it off. Hands shake and twist and thoughts claw at her like black smokey shadows.

_ Friends. _

There’s friends with nightsticks and guns, friends with blood on their hands who live either side, friends who want money for someone because they gave her clothing, friends who live across town and can’t come to the Village without an inspection. Friends who claim to know her in Town, but don’t say two words to her on her good days, and on her bad, jeer and laugh at her.

_ So many **friends**. _

Annie’s terribly popular.

She lines her shells up on the windowsill, neatens the space so it’s all even between them before grabbing her blanket, her journal, and her pillow, and heading into her closet.

Sleep seems more real than where her mind is going.

* * *

 

Floor creaks beneath her feet. Sand clings to toes, but sheds here and there and all the wrong places at all the wrong times. A pointless regret nags at her mind.

Don’t stop to clean it up.

Keep going, keep going.

_(You’ve never been afraid of the dark before. Well, maybe a little.)_

The crumble-rumble of gravel beneath tires had been too distinctive, too loud on such a calm night. Even the waves couldn’t drown out the noise.

Dark night glowers in through the glass at the back of the house, the moon too thin and meek to shine off the flowing tides. From the front, orange-yellow streetlamp seeks to peek through the sheer curtains. Dust lays in a thin sheen over the floors and shelves and tables, the sand keeping good company as Annie walks through the house. Fingers fiddle with Mags’ copy of the house-key, uncertainty making Annie fidgety.

Feet pause. Annie listens to the relative silence.

She saw him come into the house, for sure. 

It’s not every day that a car arrives at one in the morning, and deposits a person in Victor’s Village. Silhouetted, but hair glinting bronze as he passed through beams of the cars’ headlights.

Entering the foyer, a stream of white light spills out in an angled ray across the second floor’s landing.

Hand finds the stair’s bannister. Annie tries to make her way as quiet as can be. A whimper, though muffled, rings out and Annie stops again. Looks towards the light. _To the left?_ To the left. Identical twin to Mags’ house, which means the master bedroom. 

Crying in the master bedroom of Finnick Odair’s house. 

Annie gulps, padding her way down the hall where the half-opened door allows her a glimpse inside. 

He’s on the floor with his back against the foot of his bed. His knees are pulled up, head buried in his hands.

“Hello,” she calls, trying to keep her voice steady. “Finnick?”

Finnick’s head snaps up, eyes red and puffy and dilated. Lips hang opened, eyes narrowing before confusion makes his brow furrow. They stare at one another.

“I made you cookies,” she offers. She doesn’t have them with her, though. 

Empty offer.

_ Damn. _

The boy doesn’t reply. Annie remains in the doorway, not certain what to do. He looks away and begins wiping tears from his face. He looks small, smaller than he should, as big as he is. As strong as he is. Annie crosses the room to sit next to him. 

She turns the key over between her fingers. 

His shoulders shake every so often with a bitten-back cry.

Moments of silence and stillness come and go. 

The ocean whispers its perpetual song outside the opened windows of the room.

“Hello,” Finnick finally says. Scratchy voice, sniffling as he wipes at his nose with the back of his hand.

Even Finnick can’t make crying pretty.

Annie puts a hand on his back, regretting it when he flinches. She begins to pull away.

“Don’t,” he chokes out. 

She studies his expression, his own gaze locked on his knees. 

Fear, fear, everywhere: face, eyes, shoulders, head.

Annie slides her arm around his shoulders, hand giving his far shoulder a squeeze. Slowly, his posture relaxes.

_“Mèsi,”_ he murmurs.

“Of course.” she tries to give a smile, but he isn’t looking so she lets it drop. She struggles with what to say, a war of words in her head because _at least he’s not There,_ but what can be said to make anything any better than saying, 'sorry' for something she can't help? “I made you cookies.”

The repetition makes her bite her tongue, a numb nod of his head making a sinking sense of failure resonate.

“Thank you,” he repeats, before finally meeting her eyes. “You stole Mags’ key.”

Annie nods. 

A strange smile forms, one that shows his cheeks are too tight from the drying tears. Glints of ceiling light show where a drip of snot has still pooled on his upper lip.

“What?” Annie tilts her head.

Instead of answering, he turns his body towards her and wraps his arms around her. His chin tucks into the crook of her neck, and in a few minutes, slow deep breaths signal he’s likely fallen asleep. He smells of perfumes and chemicals, but she hugs him back and rests her head against his.

_Byenveni lakay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading / kudos-ing / commenting / bookmarking / subscribing / etc.! <3  
> EDITED: forgot to mention! I was interviewed by Everlark-interviews on Tumblr, under my Tumblr URL thelettersfromnoone. Definitely check out their blog, if you're interested! <3

**Author's Note:**

> THANKYOU FOR READING! let me know if anything is messy or confusing! this is just a lil' preview, the rest may not be coming once-a-week as I did with Ghosts, but I'm certainly going to try! As always comments / crit. / etc. are lovely!! <3
> 
> a couple of things, for the purposes of this fic's headcanon (if you haven't read the previous installment, that will save you, I promise!):  
> 1) Finnick and Annie never met as children / teens, what with District Four being so vast. Annie did train at District Four's Career Center, but they were years apart, and Finnick didn't attend after winning the 65th Games (exception being, training sessions to help the oldest kids, of which Annie was not a part at the time). Further, Finnick was not Annie's mentor, though he was in the Capitol during her Games for 'entertainment.' They still are getting to know one another, and their friendship / relationship is sort of on eggshells. Annie was 'sold' twice, up to this point, and Finnick was present at Annie's first 'appointment.'  
> 2) District Four has a heavy Caribbean / French / Louisianan / southern influence, and you may also notice other 'customs' in the area known as Pesca differ far from canon. e.g.: families from Pesca speak 'Creel' (or a derivation of Haitian Creole). That being said, there is further Irish / Hispanic / other influences as well.  
> 3) as much as I love Sam Claflin (and I do!! I swear! I love him soso much!!), during the books I always imagined Finnick to be at the least biracial? That being said, picture whomever pleases you!  
> 4) Annie is now seventeen (was 16 during her games), Finnick is nineteen, Mags is 82. Johanna Mason has won the 69th Games, not the 71st, and so she is 18 for the purposes of this.  
> and yess. basically this is going to pick up right where Ghosts ended (and i hope you won't all kill me!)  
> 5) Young Mags was the inspiration for President Snow's 'selling' system.  
> 6) Annie has recently stolen something, at Mags' request, from a Games' muttation designer. And she may or may not remember that.


End file.
